Regret

My head was low and hung today,
perhaps the thoughts weren't light enough.

Memories of medieval acts re-surfaced
from times when I was something else,
something
I can say I now hate.

People walk past me with a nod or "hello",
they've made up their mind and labelled me,
gave me a story that fits to my new tolerances.
A picture painted with naive brushes,
they don't know me,
they don't know.

The more I push the memories away
the more prominent they become:
I remember the speed of my hands,
blurring through flesh and eventually bone.
Screeches that only drew me in, but now
I'm chased, cornered and pinned by the noises,
the visions, the blood and testosterone
that seems to swell and fuel the horrors.

If I could fold time I'd change some lives, or
hand out a million sorrys to the unwilling ears,
but now that just seems selfish.
I left my footprints in liquid crystal; sorrys are paper thin.

When I'm taken, however it may be,
it won't be harsh enough.
Don't be fooled by who I am; the new me.
There'll be a line for pounds of flesh, and
I'll shake where I stand, but I'll stand
and screech like a pretentious pig.

So when you see my heavy face remember
you don't know me,
you don't know.