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?