I heard that I might

regret the words that I wrote

and the songs that I speak

through my poems.

Be careful,

they said,

don’t tread the water,

the ripples

may hurt

an old soul.


Yet, then

I heard silence

from the speakers

as the phone

never rang.


I’ve learned

the power of words;

my healing heart


each one back to me,

cradling the vowels.


I’ve cried on this

apartment floor;

and the one before that,

the one before that.

Words have always

stuck out their hands

and plucked me

from the carpet:




How, then,

can I regret

grabbing hold of their clasp,

sweeping myself away

in the swirl



and fire

of my song?




These words

are me.


No one

can regret


one’s own


with their song.


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