more poetry.

Quicksand

If I should wake before I die,
I’d tell you I’m sorry.
Sometimes, always, never matters when
everything is after, thought.

I’d tell you that I was sorry.
Too often, too much is always unsaid,
just an afterthought, but really
I think I might mean it this time.

Never saying too much, too often,
but speaking in silence
even after thinking
Why don’t I just shout for once?

Silence can speak.
Listen to my eyes,
screaming
I give up.

My eyes will tell you that
sometimes or always never matter. When
I give up,
everything is an afterthought.