He’s weary, sometimes his actions cause him temporary angst

But his non pursuit of passions, causes regret he’ll never shake

Fear of failure shapes the the man he is, no kiln to make the stone

Just clay he cuts and shapes, never bakes, and then re-molds

On and on the process goes…a daydream that’s redundant

He can’t solidify his lofty goals, procrastination runs abundant

He knows Innocence we lose…While chasing ambitions to re grip it

Till nostalgia is our only muse, and words…the only way to re live it

So our poet writes the sorrow psalms, the “i will start tomorrow” songs

The studious but doubtful qualms with his own soul holding out for long

…Under the weight of his self fulfilling prophecy of rejection

And a waste bin full of paper balls that questioned his perfection

Here lays an empty man with heavy hands and no art left to make

Saying in the end…we only regret the chances we didn’t take