M/N: I found this poem scribbled in a journal of mine while scrounging for a sketch book. Hope you enjoy it!
In my opinion it isn't as awesome and good and the last poem I made (and this one could be better) but I was super bored so here you go. If you feel like it's unfinished, it probably is. Can't remember. For the record, this is classified under "Captured" 'cause in a way, Alex is captured by his own mind and physically by MI6
Life is good, life is great. Life, for today, is something to celebrate.
But then the next day feels just as gray as yesterday.
Life is fleeting, life is leaving.
I just can't really bring myself to react, to the very bitter fact
That MI6 won't let me rest, they have really put my patience to the test.
I wonder if this is really a life, or if I'm already dead
Because when people try to kill me, I don't really feel any dread.
Other than the fact that I'd gladly welcome Death, there's not much to be said.
I'm just so broken beyond repair, that when people gaze into my eyes all they can see is dispair.
I know, depressing right? I'm pretty sure I was very moody when I wrote that. I can't otherwise explain why it's such a sad poem.