I remember getting under my desk for protection.

The burning hot flames against my complexion.

They missed their aim on my progression.

Their aggression on us is depression.

Their succession has been a obsession.

Now they need to regression.

Yet it was a transgression.

Now it's time for our recuperation.

They say this place is preposterous.

Utterly absurd and terrifying.

They say the ones with the most wounds have been here the longest, dying to get past the barricade.

“When you join the battle, you have to finish it,” they’ll say.

“Yes, it’s not what you hoped it to be,” they’ll rant on and continue.

But they are just the upperclassmen.

Tad bit older, tad bit wiser.

We are just the freshmen.

And this is just high school.

But in the eyes of a freshman.

There's this rumor that the old water tower is haunted,

Haunted by the victims of the war.

With water stains and spray paint,

but more of heartbreak,

And despair feelings,

Damage hearts,

Despondent souls,

Disheartening events,

Discouraging thoughts.

Yet all the rumors are true.

Though the ghost is not mourned by anyone.

They were forgotten when they died at the old water tower.

I am the ghost that haunts the water tower beside the town cemetery.

The old water tower is my watery grave.