Might never happen

Sat under a tree
With a notepad and pen,
But my thoughts don’t flow free,
They’re all clogged up again
With a log-jam I just can’t get rid of.

And I dwell on the past
That I’d rather forget,
This swirling miasma
Of boundless regret,
But it shouldn’t be that sort of poem.

’cause the sun’s in the sky
And its still rather warm,
And I wanted to try
To abandon my scorn,
But my heart’s leaking black on the paper.

This stanza at least
I’ll try forcing a smile,
And pretend i’m at peace
At least for a while;
I’m ok. No, really, I promise.

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