I saw a silhouette plant seeds 

That I wanted to plant. 

But that mystery of a person wasn’t me.

Those weren’t my hands

Which beneath the soil had them buried.

 

I saw dreams ignite in a fervid pair of eyes,

But those eyes weren’t mine, 

That spark wasn’t mine,

Even though the dream was all mine. 

 

I see people honing their poetry,

Poetry which to me solely belongs.

The ink, the scribbles, the leaves. 

Or so I thought.

Or so I believed. 

 

I have a lot of regrets,

Regrets which run through my veins 

Like blood. 

Regrets which pester me about the damage I never made good.

 

Countless budding birds and butterflies I stifled 

Before they could take flight.

The fear of falling 

Always trumps the thrill of soaring.

I wish I knew why.

 

When my flesh starts to decay

What will I remember the most?

The feelings I let suffocate 

Or the myriad opportunities I never caught a hold of?