When I look back (to pick a direction,)
My gaze is plastered by youthful
indiscretions
and my instant, expected embarrassment,
But never it's mate, the expected
regret,
For youth that fails to make mistakes
Will do so at a later date,
So now, this past I oft wish I'd
forsaken
Twists me out of screw-ups that others
are making.
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