Sometimes I find myself dueling
On the question “what if? ”
What could have been
What was
What it was to me
What it was to you
What it was to the idealist
What it was to the realist
What it was to the pessimist
What it was to the optimist
Sometimes I find myself desiring
A way into the past
A way to take back what was said
What was meant
What was kept
And sometimes I find myself wondering
How could something so easily end
And yet never begin either
On accepted terms
The illusion became evident
Words were said,
Insecurities shown,
Secrets spilt
When the play was done
The stage was mine
My heart was left in the open
Call it chance,
Call it luck,
But I call it fate
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem