The cuts I made will turn into scars.
Pain and remorse into guilt.
Not knowing which of these is worse,
what I did, or how those I hurt felt.
After the scars began to fade,
realizing the choice, but not the cost.
Secret unadulterated choices I still made
destroyed those left in my wakes froth.
The physical scars are now gone,
but within my heart is one that I hid.
Mistakes of the past make the healing slow,
because of what I did.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Yeah I know the feeling...