When is sorry enough?
When do you let go and let yourself have the smooth with the rough?
Is self-flagellation the only sensation
When the temptation of past reviewing is too much?
The facade is certain, but beyond that curtain
Is a decay that has been set free
And like an old hotel that sits proud in an old seaside town
Are my best days really behind me?
We are made up of all our choices
Of everything that we have done and said
And thought with ten thousand voices in our head
And which one we choose at any one time banishes the rest to eternity
And we grieve them, for one wrong step lays the rest to bed
That could have been a better us instead
And although we are all on the same journey
We dig each others graves
Because the dead tell no tales
The Poetry of OCD