What have I done?

Passing a proper life rather than to flee.
I would sob of it, in ink.  
But I left my pen in my study.
And pencils do not sink
as dark as any charcoal does.
It is a mark, I suppose.
But a mark grey and half uncertain.
Easier to erase than to oppose.

Then again,
I have written some, bygones ago.
We have time, yes? This goes first I ashow:
Bold wrinkles and scary parts—oh my heart…
Then once again,
You're beside me in my anecdotes.
A diary, rather than a biography:
Words that which assembled ashame of me,
Assembled a wishful child’s ideal playtime.
And I’m contempt from all my discontent.
Who could judge with an eye to justify? How so?
Do any deity know me? A shy and an afraid thing.
No longer now, a dignity to be reattained.

For God’s favor is entertained, not pertained.
That is if fortitude arches from solitude.

But I'm more of a scoundrel than a rude,
Because I make the most of all.
There is only two roads but I see fifty more.
I took none for they all have traces.
And there's no going back,
Only unkindness, has its forward paces.
And I too! Possess this vices,
But I won't make the most of all.
For I am not from solitude,
but a crowd of proud men of fortitude.

And when my rendition ends, I'm back in circles.
Where the heart rushes to the brim of the sink,
And alost its face about the mirror,
Wishes I had been an angel and say:

Heaven is a place on earth,
As long you stood all you understood,
and life ends with every tick you ponder.
And there is always time, only time; and
Think nothing of it, when you pause a little more.
For it makes a man odd,
missing his blood.