Life

The first poem I ever wrote.

Is life worth living?

I don't know;

Sometimes it seems

That it goes too slow.

Then, at other times,

It goes too fast;

It seems that life

Will never last.

Do we have the right

To talk about life?

The man upstairs

Is the one with the knife.

As the Master of Puppets,

He will cut our strings;

And then, through the halls,

Our screams will ring.