Mistakes To Go Round Poem by Sydney La Roche

I have nothing to say.
Not a single line.
It all sounds the same.
It all sounds benign.
So lame. So mundane.
So cliché.
Because what I really want to say,
Words can never really convey.
For my life is a grave game;
A poorly written play.
Where everywhere, everybody's,
Forever looking for a body...
To blame,
For all the silly mistakes they've made
And there are plenty of mistakes to go round.

I always feel like everything I say,
I've already said before.
In another life. In another time,
When I was feeling fine.
Long before this grief and sorrow,
Struck me like lightning,
Frighteningly fighting me.
Until I had no choice but to simply
Fall down to the ground,
But I have no regrets,
As there's plenty of mistakes to go round.

Frothy cancerous magma erupts,
From underneath my shabby mattress.
All the venomous tar that fills my arteries,
Ready to burst out of me.
Urging me to scream until I have no air left to breathe.
Urging me to sing desolate harmonies;
To slow-dance to my tragedy;
To stare at artex ceilings waiting for some mastery,
Where I'm finally in control.
And somebody else will make the mistake.
Because there are still so many that need to go round.

For death to take one close to heart,
Is no uncommon event,
But when you love one more than life itself
And you never got to say 'I love you',
Or even 'Goodbye'.
Or even got to hold them,
Or got to feel the warmth on your skin as you make love.
No. None of these things were meant to be.
None of these things were meant for me,
For I am such an idiot. There is but one mistake.
The thought that I could find love and be happy.
All I will ever have is heartache, heartbreak
Eternal regret.
Self-hatred and guilt that I'll never forget.
There's plenty of mistakes to go round.

I have but one option.
To endure. To survive,
Because that's being human;
That's being alive.
To merely live
And drag your feet,
As we are tiny hairs on the world
And death is it's veet.
I can finally see we are all prisoners here.
I can finally see that nothing happens for a reason.
We are all just prisoners in our life,
Doomed to be dead.
Doomed to be alive.
To lose the race. To make mistakes.
There's plenty of mistakes to go round,
And there's no second chances.