I owe myself an apology.
For a shame far greater than my own anthology.
For something that only I could take away from me.
And for something only God knew I would never see.

The mistakes I made;
The fortune forthwith I played,
Incorrectly; a self-pointed blade.
Living now, forever dismayed.

Remember how he cried?
Shackled by the throat, on the day he died?
A soul begging for mercy, from inside a body of lies.
For it was he, holding his own chain; a self-inflicted demise.

Causing his own pain.

Like an eagle refusing to rise.

Why couldn’t he see, like you and me?
Did he not yearn to be set free?
Or was it the pain he thought he’d need? 
For some form of masochistic plead?

It’s just how it seemed to me.
That he had the perfect opportunity.
To become who he was meant to be.
But instead, he only lived in fantasy.

I wish he could come back.
For one last chance; a final crack.
To feel love, instead of black.
You didn’t have to leave; we always had your back.

I just wish he saw in him what he saw in me.
And its for this he owes his own apology.