​When I had my suspicions my hands quivered and shaked.
When I had confirmed it completely, my whole body quaked.

​I could not understand my inner conflict.
And its infinite capacity to self inflict.

​I waited by the window for you to arrive.
The hours passed, I wasn't sure if you were alive.

​I don't know why I always choose this time to contemplate.
It inevitably results in me staying up way too late.

​She was born and raised in the worst area of town.
For reasons unknown, her life was being kept down.

​I suffered for years in a melancholic state.
It was because of this sorrow that I sealed my fate.

​My first cousin was an Orthodox priest.
A man who didn't seem to be troubled in the least.

​Can you ever really know a person's story?
Was their past pleasant or was it gory?

​Give me a reason to live.
Sometimes I think I have nothing more to give.

When do we take our final breath?
Does it come moments before or after our death?