In the Book of Regrets, I find my verse,
A melancholy tale, a mournful curse,
Each page a chapter of my soul's lament,
A chronicle of choices, poorly spent.

In ink of sorrow, penned with trembling hand,
I read the tales of dreams I couldn't stand,
The roads I didn't take, the chances missed,
In the Book of Regrets, my heart is amiss.

I weep for moments lost in careless haste,
For love forsaken, bitter truths faced,
The friendships shattered, bridges set ablaze,
In the Book of Regrets, I count the days.

Each page, a portrait of a life askew,
A symphony of sighs, a mournful hue,
For actions that I can't undo or mend,
In the Book of Regrets, my past won't bend.

I wished to write a story of delight,
To paint my life in colors pure and bright,
But in this tome of tears, I must confess,
My Book of Regrets is a mournful mess.

I yearn to turn the pages, start anew,
To find redemption in a world so blue,
But all I have are memories to hold,
In the Book of Regrets, by pages with weights of stone.

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