No Regrets

I  

tell  

myself: No  

regrets, but I  

can still feel It. It's  

still there. Taunting me.

No matter how hard I scrub 

my hands, it won't go away. The

blood is still there. Slipping through my

fingers. Dripping onto the chalk drawings 

below. Melting into the  pavement. I stand there; 

staring at the lifeless body that lay before me. Cold. 

His lips turning blue, and his face soaked in his own 

blood. The worst part was, his eyes were open,and a

tear was still slowly sliding        down his face into the 

pool of blood. The gun            still remained in my hand, 

the tip still hot to the                touch. I can still feel it. The

vibration pulsing                     through my arm as I pulled 

the trigger. BANG..               followed by the prolonged 

silence. No tears.                No regrets. That's what I 

tell myself. But every          now and again, the 

moment I let my self-control slip, I can 

feel the regrets and tears itching 

to be set free. 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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