We all carry Guilt.
Things we did
Or should have done.
Actions taken when red mist descended,
Hot blackness deep inside,
Or when we ran scared
Like a startled rabbit.

Sometimes we were just plain mean:
Doing things
Too bad to confess.
At times we “did our job”,
Knowing full well
That it was wrong.

We hate ourselves for what we did:
Adrenaline taking over
As we exploded and lashed out.
Cruel acts and gutting dumpings:
Things best unsaid.

But no good beating ourselves up.
No point blaming ourselves
For things we did as callow youths.
We cannot always help
What we do.
To err is human,
As they say.

We all have our flaws and demons:
Personality defects and fears.
Some have  anger issues
And autistic traits.
Fear of commitment,
Emotional dimness
And many other such things.
Stuff of heartbreak
And sorrow.

I, for one, never did relationships –
Just didn’t understand
What they were about.
So I was bound to do wrong
Sometime.

All stuff for lyrics of songs:
Songs of drifting apart
And breaking up.
Material mounting into Everests
Of angst.

But worry not.
We are not alone.
For evil acts,
Trouble and strife,
Division and violent clashes:
They all seem to be the general way
In these trying
Modern times.

Plenty to work on
In our collective quest
For Peace,
Including peace of mind.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\1\2021.

It's upon these cold stones
Which now, I choose to sit, and wait.

Alone at sunrise, fear, hatred and of course, this synthetic 'Art of Doubt'....become me.

The ridged steps- my only companionship
the true essence of cold.

as my fingers numb, and I can barley type this out
Honestly know
I wonder how long and painful
death by ice
really must be.

Beside me; a building filled with everything I could ever ask for want or even need.

Everything.

And yet , Upon these Cold stones
I sit, just a while longer
To remember what I still have. Not mourn what I've lost.

But mainly, to be a man who doesnt deserve anything inside that wonderful, overwhelming sentimental house. Be it people, possessions even the animals-on those cold steps of reality-he deserves where he rests.
They all deserve more than what I thought I could haven given them.
More than this.
I am so sorry Dad.
Im very sorry Mom.

Thank you, for these cold stones.  You will never understand the gratitude, which one day
I must leave behind,
of all the these priceless blessings.

But for now
It's upon these
Oh so cold, disgracelesss stones- you and me are too alike
melted with liquid burned and with fire, me and these cold stones
know true
desperation.

please lay me down gently
into the pit
that we dug long ago
don't be afraid
the dark cannot scare me
just lay me down gently
and watch me regrow
if life was for naught
if life was for nothing
may you find solace in my beautiful corpse
cry if you wish
your tears can water me
like rain from the heavens
if they have no where to go
please don't stay long
it hurts me to see you
talking to ghosts
forgetting yourself
if the stone can look after
my wandering spirit
then you can look after
your wandering self

-graveyard flowers

Do skeletons gather dust
Or does the dust gather bones
Do they move from your closets
As you move from your homes
Is there a castle
That holds your old throne
Would you have changed this time
If you had only known
What scares you more
To remember or forget
But what about your allies
Do you wish you’d never met
Did you know that they died for you
For you their suns had set
Tell me which hurts more
The guilt or the regret
Your heart still hates your past
Do you remember when it tore
Back then you weren’t satisfied
Always wanting more
Tears and supernovas
Fast collapsed your core
Do you remember who you were
Who you were before the war

-skeletons

guilt has not but one form,
but thousands
some persist in prolonged periods;
prowling through the past programs of the mind
while many blow wind in your eyes,
each time the sun goes down

A fall is only as bad as you make it
A doorstep is not as deadly as a canyon
But I would like for you to tell that
To the shattered vase

The jagged edges of the broken glass
Shimer and shine like blood on protruding bones

While cleaning it up I feel a sudden pain
I inspect the injury
A small cut has appeared on my hand
Red liquid pools in the palm of my hand
A chuckle emerges from my chest
"In my clumsiness and neglect I have not only hurt another, but also myself.
"I will let you have your revenge because I do not blame you for being spiteful."

I pick up the pieces and inspect the translucent stones
"I could buy glue, pick up every piece, spend hours recreating this masterpiece."
"No, I am no craftsman. I am no glasssmith."
"This vase is broken."
The smell of sweat and iron reminds me of the damage that I brought on myself

My body has already started the process of repair
The blood has hardened to cover the wound
I try not to think about it
"It will sort itself out." I think to myself

I head out a second time to transport the vase
Pain in my hand refuses to subside

I ignore it

Within a few steps the glass once again falls
My hand throbs with sharp uncontrollable pain

The palm of my hand rotten and greened
Much worse than it had seemed
I look for a glove to cover the mess
But the problem won't end untill it's addressed
As I look for the glove the rot continues to grow
But if I only find the glove no one will know
Before i know it i am consumed
In much less time then I presumed

My eyes open to a blinding white room
Surrounded by faces of people  I know
Disappointed but worried
I had not done what was right
I had not asked for help
I had not even taken care of the injury
These people all care about me
I had let them all down
I will need to try again to move the vase
But this time I know
I will need help without my right hand

Gazing from a mirror broken beyond repair,
All she could notice was a lifeless face.
A stench of blood and that of guilt,
Trailed her wherever she went.

She was haunted all her life,
Her days filled with endless tears
Seeking what she thought would end the pain,
To remedy the hate she had within.

Of her heart and soul she bleed.
The sun and moon had no effect
Cos all she perceived was a thick darkness,
A vendetta she promised to reciprocate.

O'er everything she sort revenge,
Gladly thinking it'll end the hate
But the nights became horrifying,
With a grime of blood on her hands for life.