The Thing I Believe To Regret The Most

The thing I believe to regret the most
Is not writing more.

You see, I’ve been a lot of places
And I went to those places for me.
And I did start out with a journal,
I did outline my journeys.
Sometimes I’d write poems,
Poems that echoed my soul,
And other days I would just live
Unbothered to write because
My experiences were mine alone.
And who are they,
To read my words?
To comprehend but not experience.
Yet now I wish,
I would have wrote the details
Of my own quest for purpose
You see, I didn’t understand
In the moments of all this feeling
That one day, I wouldn’t be able
To recall any of it.
Not understanding my memory
Cannot conjure
The things I’ve seen.
And the few words I have
From those days are precious
Because maybe a picture
Says a hundred words,
But my words.
My words are entangled
With emotions, they are
Resurrecting feelings and faces.
And those words have taste,
And smell, texture and tears.
Yet in one of these days
Abroad and alone
I decided these words
Are better off unwritten
Then read, for reading them
Captures all of what I thought
I had released
And these words
Have claws and fear and teeth
And memories that were buried
Deep, might resurface.

You see, in short
I let other people
Take my words away from me.
First, in spite of them.
Nothing to prove to anyone,
Placing my footprints on the globe
Not focused on who was watching.
And then at times
I would try to write
But I didn’t know how to
Type around the horrors
Of my day.
Sometimes unending
Always unsettling
What was I to say?


The thing I believe to regret the
Most is not writing more
The things I’ve seen
I could’ve released
Through ink and tree
Yet now the words
Lay dormant beyond my reach
As my memory can’t
See the steps
Or behind the thoughts
of what really made me,
Me.