Sometimes I write music, and sometimes I record it, and sometimes I mean things that you never have heard.
This town was paper, parchment and leaves.
Your house was a memory.
Written in the breeze.
I carried it with me.
Stored in my lungs.
Until I woke beside her.
and it wasn’t enough.
I burnt all the paper.
It made a great pyre.
I tossed in the pictures.
They crinkled, expired.
Yet I carried it all with me.
Till’ I showered off the ash.
Washed clean of your promises.
I hope that it lasts.
Then one day we found writing on the walls.
Beneath the posters I hung to cover it all.
They reminded me. The memories are real, even if they aren’t written, or inhaled on a whim.
They’re still in the air.
You left them there, when you burned them by the sea.
Sure this town was paper, but she wont burn so easily.
[shameless paper towns reference, all hail John Green]
I was informed how much I messed up.
To tell the truth, this was a moment where I did nothing wrong, yet I feel more guilty about messing up because I failed to realize how someone could see my actions as harmful.
I cannot, and should not speak about mistakes I’ve made, and yet I find that once again I am stuck with this overwhelming regret for something I doubt I will ever feel less accountable and sorry for, even in twenty years.
I still feel bad about throwing mud in a kids eye in first grade, even though he flung a pile at me first, and was pushed from behind by that horrible nuisance kev-wait.
I do things, and I regret them.
That is my task and my burden.