I look back at every race that I've run,
Every play that I've made, every ski trick I've done,
and I think of how I could have been better.
I look back at my miniature, snub-nosed career,
The high-velocity writing I did in one year,
and I think of how I could have been better.
I recall this conversant life that I've led,
Look back on acidic things that I've said,
and I think of how I could have been better,
But it's the brainless accidents of unmeaning,
The words I've borne unshaped by thought
That make me hate myself with all I've got.
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