Another poem about being sorry,
You've probably heard enough, but not from me,
Because I've written about me being,
Except for this one thing.

I'm sorry is what we say all the day through,
But an apology isn't what we ask for,
An apology is never needed,
But we feel we've done wrong, we're feeling blue.

We never ask for an apology,
But sorry is resounding,
Like at a funeral, a dead man's eulogy,
And the figures we keep on rounding.

Sorry for hurting you,
Sorry for crying,
Sorry for almost dying,
Sorry for all, and a few.

And yet, in return, you say sorry to me,
When you've done nothing wrong,
And if you did you never had to anyway,
Because I had already forgiven you.

It's a battle of who is more wrong,
Than who is more right,
And we don't know why,
But winning is what we're going to try.

I for one am sorry for writing this poem,
Not like I haven't thought enough about you,
But it's now in the public too,
But then I'm not really sorry, because I love you.

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