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