There is nothing I can say that has meaning, when all I’ve done is make it meaningless.
Nothing I could write that will change past actions or make them not hinder, hurt or cause distress.
No excuses, no apologies can heal pathways of thought I have caused to appear,
Because the worst kind of person is the one who pushes away what they know is kinship sincere.
I still maintain that every masterpiece has it flaws, brushstrokes that cause breakdown or give pause, and even though I am still fighting for my cause, even though I have bruised that which once was.
Because for all the resources I’ve taken for granted or abused,
The most tragic of these is how I misused my muse.