A bad poem.

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.