What Were We Thinking?
Mourning Regret
It's not simple, no step-by-step, no book on a shelf, a conversation eye to eye, a mother's answer, a father's certainty, a kiss at sunset, a bad choice righted, it's done, it's present, it's lasting, it's pain; it happened, it was, it changed you, it changed me, us, them, then, now and always. Words emptied into sighs, skies return to blue, endless, wander, wonder, was, is, could, maybe, only if's. Time, flying flawlessly like diving gulls, towering above one minute, swooping down into the depths of cold, green seas, tossing up a catch, feeding their newness screeching from the nest. Alone, every single atom feels the heart's imprint, good, bad, unknowing, what was yearned for, how it was sought, how it broke us into small bits of flesh to nourish our hunger for something, different, better, less or just kinder? You are who you are, your manner, your dress, hidden, or confessed, it's all ready, to unwrap, release, okay to live for. Don't pull away, nor withhold your dreams, your breath is mine, too. Let them pray, or cry, flail in their naivety; let go, surrender to the beauty of being here as you are, with or without me, them, approval or questions. On their knees, wanting desperately for us to be something other than who we are, it's their lack of Spring, of falling in love, their mourning regret. Never ours to behold.
About the Creator
ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)
~ American feminist living in Sweden ~ SHE/HER
Admin. Vocal Social Society
Find me: @andreapolla63.bsky.social
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insights
Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
Easy to read and follow
Well-structured & engaging content
Eye opening
Niche topic & fresh perspectives
On-point and relevant
Writing reflected the title & theme
Keep reading
More stories from ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons) and writers in Poets and other communities.
Last Call
His eyes were closed, his memories calling, beckoning him to take one more stroll, to meet up with someone he couldn't name, to claim his old spot, his favourite table, to have a final whiff of the mead-drenched air, the familiar bartender pulling back the tap to his usual, muck like draft, grinned. He could taste the long ago days, when work was just a way to pass time, to be dutiful, to avoid thinking, remembering all that made him the man he'd become. Just like that he was gone, his mother weeping, his father aware that he could not do anything, nothing to save his own boy. He could smell the day when he was broken by war, hunger, death and perpetual fear. It was of earthworms, of poisonous bile, men spitting, laughing, bragging of the faces they saw in their final state of anguish; the same men who grabbed handfuls of dirt, moistened from melting snow then crammed it into their prisoners mouths. There, now they'd been fed, they'd sneer. Cigarettes, ashes on ashes, foggy mornings with nothing to hear, to touch, to run to. His eyes twitched, heavy and tired, he wanted more than this last bit of life he clung to; he wanted to feel his mother's arms around him, feel her lift him up, out of his suffering, his father to make that well thought out move in the chess game that never was finished. He strolled deeper, back to his first love, her green eyes prodding him to make her his girl; he had kissed her and it was like the first sign of spring, the day the war ended, the sweet bread his mother baked, the strong hug his father gave him when he finally walked through the threshold after his unwanted adventures. She called him from a place with flutes, harps, melodies softly sung; where was this place? He couldn't take his misplaced memories fading in and out; he wanted to escape, just hide in the hay until his life was over, just as he did in the barn, or was it an old train car? He had hidden with another soldier, both too young to have made many choices, there minds had simply been living, soothing, free before the kick at the door. Questions were asked, had he put up a fight? He sat down at his favourite table and sipped his beer, he thought of his wives, his children, chocolate and the bareness of his soul. How could it all lead to somewhere so cold? He'd wanted to make his son's laugh, his daughter feel special, yet how could he when the villains which had such a hold on him sat before him now blocking him from his favourite table, staring at him with cynical smiles, smelling of decay with their skin so thick and meaty. Dare they haunt him as he neared his last hours? He never was what others saw, assumed, projected, felt; he was a constant hostage of his past. It is last call, despite his table full, he stands proudly for his final draft.
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Poets
📢 Raise Your Voice Thread: 01/08/2026
Our “Raise Your Voice Threads” are hosted most alternating Thursdays at 12PM ET to offer creators more avenues to uncover exceptional stories on Vocal. As we are continuously searching for fresh creators and inspiring stories, this thread provides an opportunity to exchange and discuss the stories that have moved and motivated us on Vocal.
By Raise Your Voice by Vocal7 days ago in Resources
Comments (23)
Our Village Pet-Rock - As I scroll through your marvelous presentations *I've subscribed with pleasure; though it's hard to keep up with you. ~ I've just posted a reach-back - I'm a slow writer ~ - My respect - j.in.l.a. Jay Kantor, Chatsworth, California 'Senior' Vocal Author - Vocal Author Community -
Your style is breathtaking and unique I’ve never seen anything like it
'Never ours to behold.' Oooo, that line and so many others. What a brilliant piece of writing to express something so personal.
This is beautifully written. Congrats on the top story!
Wow. There is something very palpable in this. Something universal. It evokes an undefined longing for what has been lost. Amazing work, thank you for writing it.
Not simple...but IS.
Worthy of saving and keeping within reach to be read over and over again!
Congrats on Top Story!🥳🥳🥳
Wow Rock this is beautiful!! I love the feel and overall dark mood of this piece!! Can I ask what kind of poem this is?? If I had to guess I'd say prose?? I just ask because I'm nosey and working on pushing myself to try different kinds of poetry! Also, congrats on Top Story, this was so well earned!! 🎉
Back to say congratulations on your Top Story! 🎉💖🎊🎉💖🎊
I love the gorgeous flow
I love the internal rhyme here. “You are who you are, your manner, your dress, hidden, or confessed, it's all ready, to unwrap, release, okay to live for.” Beautifully written, the word play and flow are working so well.
Beautifully written and such honesty. Congrats on the TS.
Wow, yes! This is what I want to wear, completely transparent
No, it's never simple. But it can be wonderful.
This was so poignantly beautiful! I loved it!
Absolutely fantastic piece, ROCK, and inspiring! Love the message to be yourself in this
Beautiful!
Breathless with immediacy. This poem feels like it encompasses the entire world. Truly extraordinary writing.
The beauty of what is.
Beautifully heartfelt
Wow! This is beautiful and felt. ❤️😊
beautiful written, ROCK!