Inky Feet

It’s regret that’s a deadly disease.
It wipes the slate clean.
It wipes the words off your inky feet.
It pops the bubbles on your toes.
Faster than I cared to admit.
I took my time, learning what f*ck there was left to give.
When there wasn’t one, I made one.
Much to my dismay, I needed one.
(Lessons learned much later, I’m afraid)
Like lines drawn from a pen that connects,
Your heel to the blade.
These are words not spoken, but displayed.
Regrets are like skin, they decay eventually.
Though not quick enough.