No Regrets

No Sorrow Here

A friend in an e-mail

said that I write well;

and it did me a world of good.

Until then, I alone understood.

Yes, I think so myself,

though nothing is on a shelf

with my name scribed on it.

I don’t need that particular tit.

Writing well is enough for me;

understand: it helps me to see

that I can locate words,

which shine the stars or smell the turds;

for no one’s enjoyment but my own,

because I always have felt alone.

It’s not a matter for you to worry,

but only mine, and I’m not sorry.

I chose this life from  a world of strife

to keep from picking up the knife;

and long since learned to throw the blade,

yet long refrained from having slayed.