I’m sorry,
I’d really love to stay and play all day,
But for the voices,
These residents of my head,
They’ve got so much to say,
That I can’t help but listen,
Which in itself is not a bad thing,
Except that it sets my pen to bleeding,
And by the time I’m done,
Making sure everything is prim,
The moment is long lost and gone,
You’ve moved on too,
The world is sleeping,
And all that’s left to do,
Is for me to stand as accused,
And quietly say,

For the umpteenth time,
I’m so sorry.