The fragments of morose,
Join to form a delta.

It emerges,
As a long river of regret.

The river flows,
On and on and on.

It escapes from my heart,
To all the unknown regions;

That have never tasted,
Regret yet.

It reaches my hands,
My face and my eyes.

Turning me into,
A shaking mess.

Turning me into,
A crying baby.

Turning me into,
A hurt one.

The victim,
Mainly being the heart.

Rivers of regret,
That turns my being;

Into something ugly,
Regret;

Of not turning out to be that,
People wanted me to be.

**
©VioletEden