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I can never be sorry enough.

I'm sorry for all the times
I said 'i love you' and I didn't
mean a word of it, but more
than that, I'm sorry for all the
times I didn't say it and I
never got another chance.

I'm sorry for all the times
I lied to your face, but I'm
even more sorry for all the
times it wasn't supposed to
become a lie and I just wasn't
strong enough, just didn't
try hard enough...

I'm sorry for all the makeup I
wear just to hide from you and
rebel against the world, but I'm
so much more sorry now that
there's no reflection left in the
mirror after I wash it off at night.

I'm sorry for dragging you down
when I crashed, hit the ground,
and forcing my misery down your
throat, but I'm much more sorry that
I don't have the will power to make
it get any better...

I'm sorry for all the things I've
ever done, but much more than
that, I'm sorry for all the things
I never did...
all the things I'll never do.


- c.hell.sea
 

Author's Note

I know it doesnt rhyme. Not much of what I write does. It's all straight from thought.

Also. This is aimed at many people. I don't really want to give specifics because it's really personal and I wat to leave it open to interpretation.

Reviews

[Lukas]

This poem... it carries so much power with it, so much emotion, and allure, tied into an ambiance of stark melancholy and dispiriting remorse; it deserves a thorough and somewhat exhaustive dissertation, in my opinion.
It begins with an assertion: "I'm sorry for..." and right away, the mood is created, an atmosphere of regret from which every other line will derive, every stanza that will both break away into various simulacra of sentiment and convalesce into a monument of passion and apathy. Each canto begins with this sorrowful reminder of the very reason this work of art was created. That very first stanza, however, is about love in particular. Alternatively, and more so, love lost: for in each of the author's regrets, there was the possibility of love under the canopy of candour, but instead, an action (or omission) that in hindsight becomes woeful. There is a sense that time was once bountiful but is now fleeting, and one can almost envision time slipping out of the author's hands and shattering like glass upon stone, and floating away like graceful butterflies in a gentle breeze. There is no harshness to this stanza, only the cruel face of remorse being unveiled, finally, to the blinding light of truth. Love lost, love forgotten, and love feigned, are all integral aspects of this first canto, and as such, we know that there IS love in the author's heart: only that love may not, perhaps, be directed by a mind of reason.
The second stanza also contains an element found in the first, that being of falsity; except here, the regret is more general, and it almost seems as if the author is bringing us on a rhythmic and lyrical crescendo of sincere heartache. Not only is it admitted, here, that there were lies created, but we also get the sense that this development of spuriousness had become almost inherent to the author's character-"I'm | even more sorry for all the | times it wasn't supposed to | become a lie�" followed by the saddening admittance that it was helplessness, either of character or of will, that brought forth the untruths. There is an aura of personal weakness, aligned with an unhindered ability to be mendacious: this juxtaposition shows us only more of the author's inner conflict, the very means by which regret was created.
The third stanza is rich in imagery, and beautiful in the very images it creates. In the lines, "I'm sorry for all the makeup I | wear just to hide from you and | rebel against the world," create a different version of the narrator, compared to what we have previously been exposed to: now, the author is rebellious, and audacious, as opposed to the sheepish quality found in the characteristics of feigned love and lies. The term "makeup" is particularly significant in that it evokes an image of splendour, of beauty exclusive to the nature of the character. However, in this splendour, an aggressiveness, a rebellion against a cruel and unforgiving world; a spectrum is formed, flowing between the termini of grace and recalcitrance. Within, we find the regret, the nebula by which each individual failure, like a star in the night sky, is found, and in a paradoxical fashion, it is these very stars that allow the formation of the regret. Once again, nonetheless, we find that the spectrum of emotionality is merely superficial, just as the makeup worn each day, and with the dialectical and ritual removal of the cursory comes the elucidation of truth and the crux of despair. Does this mean that the very regret we find abundant in this work is also superficial? We are asked to question this very idea, and the answer lies somewhere in the midst of human consciousness: there only lies an actual truth, as per Descartes (Ergo cogito sum, remember?). In other words, we know that the pain being suffered is real, because it consists solely within the mind, and therefore anything else derived from these despondent thoughts must have some element of truth embedded within its enigmatic processes-the regret is not so much a factual aspect, but rather a transcendent exploration of the limits of the mind.
This all being said, we must remember that, although there is a transcendental quality to the author's regret, in between the remorse and the pain there is a caesura-there is no causality. As such, we can be assured that actions or omissions created by the author have a deterministic quality to them, an enactment upon the limits of free will. This is reinforced by the fourth stanza, wherein the qualities of misery and its effect on others are played out. The author claims, in this canto, that she is the creator of misery for her 'innocent victim' (perhaps too harsh of a term, but apt for explanatory purposes), solely for the reason that she, too, was suffering. Yet remember, before, how causes and effects are limited by the will-because of this, we know now that misery was the a priori experience, immortal, and the causality within the infliction of pain was only material. What does this mean? In the author's moral weakness ("I'm much more sorry that | I don't have the will power to make | it get any better�"), the decrescendo of the piece, the dragging down into the unforgiving earth. Because of the lost love, of the lies, of the pretentiousness, and of the misery, there is no hope left. The final effect of the piece is formulated with pristine beauty: hopelessness, because of her severance between the states of grace found in pure pretentiousness, lies, misery, and lost love, and the ever-so real condition of pain, is the never-ending antagonist to her very being. "I'm sorry for | all the things I've | ever done, but much more than | that, I'm sorry for all the things | I never did... | all the things I'll never do" displays for us the epitome of her finality, of her own truth. Is this forlorn truth inherent to all men and women?-or is it solely the fate of the incurable, yet fragile and beautiful, author? This piece demonstrates, above all, regret, in its most sincere form: and that, in all its otherworldliness, is the focus. In the end, our emotions take over, and we feel sadness, for despondency brings out the melancholy in all of us. One would expect resentment for all the supposed lies and deception, yet this does not appear, because we know that when these experiences act upon a poor soul, there is nothing one can do but obey its desires.
This is an absolutely beautiful piece, and one definitely worth of analysis. I certainly hope that you do not find any of this offensive, because I chose to look at this from the angle of an objective onlooker instead of a close friend. Any words used, such as 'lies' or the like, were not meant to be accusatorial, but solely explanatory. I may have perhaps gone much deeper into the lines than you had initially thought of when you first wrote this, but it is proof that you are intellectual and deep, and that you can create something as beautiful as a work of art without even thinking. Do not ever stop performing your art, because that would be the terrible waste of a wonderful mind.
I apologize for the ranting quality of the review, but I simply could not help myself. I also understand that it is very possible I have gotten this completely wrong, and that everything I said could not be farther from the truth of this piece� but this only what I could come up with; I did my best. Please forgive me. =)

[octane143]

I agree with the reviewer below. There is so mch emotion here. Power, grief, regret, saddness and self-reflection here. It's painful to read but the imagery and flow almost force and beg you to continue.
I'm sorry for all the makeup I
wear just to hide from you and
rebel against the world, but I'm
so much more sorry now that
there's no reflection left in the
mirror after I wash it off at night.

Sometimes we are our own worst enemies. There's so much self-defeating here, almost to the point it's hatred. It is beatiful tho and the depth of the emotion is incredibly apparent.
Consuming work! I'm sure it was incredibly hard to write, and I admire your honesty and the way you just laid yourself out there. I hope there was some healing involed in writing this.