I'm sure some of my classmates wonder why I always write sad poems,
so I will do my best to explain my disposition-

A life is a terrible thing to waste,
and watching young people being lowered into graves
like fragile pieces of trash makes you reevaluate a lot of things.

What means the world to you?
Is it just a stage for your vain actions,
whose repercussions you will fail to realize
until you stand at an altar thumbing a page
of postulations on the essential nature of fate?

I saw you in my sleep, the way I prefer to remember you:
before your innocuous eyes were colored with your own blood,
before you became a subject of my nightly prayers,
before you were disposed of.

That day,
when you realize how truly insignificant most of your worries are,
you may find yourself plagued with a chronic anguish.

So I told them that we were made to love each other,
as a shameless cascade of tears trailed down my face,
and that even when that love is vanquished
it's haunting recurrence will one day take us
to a consolation in some alien space.

I can't escape my self-imposed confinement,
so I just write on the walls,
page after page,
edifying chains.