Always in the wrong

doesn’t matter what I’ve done

just can never get it right

and every day and every night

it’s just time to write and catalog

those decisions made in memorial fog

all those errors and mistakes made of mine

rippling through the sea of time,

causing tidal waves of troubled foam

for wherever I happen to aimlessly roam—

I’m always in the wrong

and wherever I have gone

I just can’t do anything clean and good

and I’m always saying “if only I could—”

but there’s no fixing the broken days

there’s only me, always parting ways,

and rambling, shambling, shuffling on—

and sure enough, I’m assured to be wrong.

2 thoughts on “Wrong

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