My thoughts spilling
Into the hands and mouths of others
A scattered page,
Like a loose bolt
Letting the red apples clutter the concrete
With tiny shards of peel.

No sense of place
The scraps are allocated
By the severity of the stain they leave behind.

I wander through wet and murky streets
Clouded over by years of regret,
In order to pick them up.  

Some are forgotten
Others are mistaken for another’s when truly they were my own
Or vis-versa.

And I fight for every bit
Chew my teeth out arguing.

The trail grows cold the further back I fumble
How many times has the tea stain been spent?
How many years should I waste and lament
Actions I have no control over.

At least someone else is happy.