“Do not cry over spilled milk”, they said.
“It’s okay, move on”, they hushed me and fled.
In the barren land, they left me alone as I bled,
memories, pain, regret, spurt out of my veins instead.
It’s the memories. The past that never let go,
the soul that nags me, to feed it to grow,
and one day, it’s welcomed to the show.
I would change it if I could, I’d go back and say no,
I wouldn’t let that kid hit me with snow,
I’d value myself, I’d glow,
and I wouldn’t let that lady bring me low.
I wouldn’t let you act like I’m invisible to your brown eyes,
I wouldn’t hold back my anger, and overlook your lies,
I’d shed no tears, I’d take no advice,
and If you hurt me, I leave, I won’t think twice.
It’s the past…
It’s the past that beats inside me like a second heart,
It’s the pain, that tears me every time apart.
It’s the memories that accompany me in the dark,
It’s a blemish, as long-lasting as a birthmark.