Three Seconds Before Regrets

Why Do I Write?

With romance rising from the best words from my soul

That I cut open with sharpened opal

I bring to the world the labor of passionate grovel

I begged to breathe and here is my survival

Many dared ask why I spill like wine on bloodied oak

For people who did not stay

With tears, I immortalized, as with words I spoke

My poetry is love, their names merely carved for display

Many described me as unforgiving

For tearing down sculptures I built for those leaving

I'll burn down portraits and castles with forever blessing

There is permanence in my poetry, but none in their passing