I wrote so many feelings,
And I re-read them,
Because I don’t want to waste a good line on a bad poem.
I don’t want to waste my breath explaining something already said,
Waste a sentiment I will soon forget.
I have wasted so much of myself,
Failed in every game I have played,
Wasted a good move on an inevitable fate,
Wasted all my romantic thoughts on a betrayal,
On someone present only in my teenage mistakes,
Someone I will remember until old age.
What a waste of all my traits.
My first friend,
A milestone with a terrible end.
If I am asked about them, I turn pale.
I feel myself saving face,
A waste of everything great,
Memories that will stay.
What a waste of good days.
I want to express the magic I have made.
I am sure, I write good things,
but when I write them, they lose meaning.
I still waste ink in the hopes that someone might have a similar feeling.
My delusion knows no limits.