Guilt Strikes

Guilt Strikes

Guilt Strikes One.

I get angry and deny what I've done.

How the faulty fall and burn to the ground.

The inferno of pain, the retribution,

The ultimate self-disdain.

Guilt Strikes Two.

I cry and ponder "What can I do?"

What is done has been over with for hours to years,

But now, all that's left is a heaping load of fear.

"How do I make amends? How do I remove my life smear?"

Guilt Strikes Three.

The judge may decree:

"Your actions define your sentence."

A lifetime alone, a lifetime free.

But one that lacks friends and family.

Guilt Strikes Four.

Like Poe's twisted raven, our love is nevermore.

Searching for someone to understand.

A soldier by my side: A friend? A foe?

All that's left is me: the damned.

Guilt Strikes Five.

Everyone leaves me; I become deprived.

What can I do except weep in my solitary existence?

Not many understand what it's like to have the have nots.

When it's gone though, all that's left are raging thoughts.

Guilt Strikes Six.

I wallow in my mental tricks.

"All will be well. All will heal."

But can I, the scorned, rekindle the past?

How do I create anew? How do I make those the last?

Guilt Strikes Seven.

I'm done! I'm free!

There are no shackles left on me.

Only residual pain, "but that will subside."

For now, I celebrate... being alive.

Guilt Strikes Eight.

I stride in my glee.

There is nobody that has a single bond to me.

All have left, I have none but myself.

Is it as bad as the reflection of my health?

Guilt Strikes Nine.

I'm alone; I'm fine.

Am I true in my deprecation?

Or is it all falsehood of heart?

What have I done? It's all wrong; I have no one!

Guilt Strikes Ten.

Teary eyed, I am still condemned.

Thinking and brooding, compounding strategy.

Realizing my faults, my sins, my ills of heart,

It's time to say sorry and hope to restart.

Guilt Strikes Eleven.

My pulse pulsing, my eyes eying, my hands handing:

An apology to those wronged and myself.

"Can we love again? Can we build our respect?"

There is a glare, perhaps their heart will redirect.

Guilt Strikes Twelve.

Their arms embrace.

Our tears in which we swim.

But they will never forget, and nor will I

The stain in our bond, the dent, the damage.

Slamming my fists and drenched in sorrow,

The progress-"no, please, no"-becomes undone.

Because once more, Guilt Strikes One...