The Regrets

Sleep is a stranger,

My mind whirls and hums.

The regrets pull up a chair,

Merrily regaling me with my shortcomings.

I ignore them: I try to distract myself,

But my brain is now is a portfolio of failure,

Every mistake magnified to the size of a billboard.

My eyes sting with tiredness, my body is cold,

Chilled with thoughts of love I'm incapable of finding,

Dreams of a professional success I am unequipped to realize.

The regrets chunter on...

The silence of friends and family,

All due to a failure on my part;

What if I'm not the scapegoat but simply unlikable?

What if I'm just easy to loathe?

The regrets are incisive: Paring me to the marrow.

Of birthdays I missed - I didn't even find the energy for a simple card,

Occasions I ruined - the social skills of a corpse,

Summer holidays where I found nothing but time for my own sadness,

Of jobs where I failed - one disaster after another,

Of hearts that could only find hate for me.

I'm at one with the regrets: Their sales pitch is intoxicating,

I cannot argue.

A blanket of blame: I'm warm with the barbs.

The regrets fall quiet: Their work done.

Wrapped in their warmth, sleep comes.

They stand sentry, guarding me against the arrival of esteem.

In the morning, the chair is empty: The regrets have vacated.

But I still wear the blanket,

An armor that keeps me locked in,

Cocooned in my mistakes.

If sleep is a stranger,

The regrets will come again tonight,

A lodger I cannot evict.

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