Watered Plants Don't Always Live

I live in a cube.
My boxed existence is bounded -
Books to the left,
A Mexican knife to the right -
The browned greens before me cry out for help.
The plants struggle for life.
They are watered and fed -
Are lighted by the afternoon sun,
Then die.
I wonder why.

They are so like my life.
Reflections so unexpected,
Yet so real -
Where do they come from?
Why do they hit me now,
When their target is so vulnerable?

Some day this cube will explode
And I will be vomitted to my grave.

Will it accept me and let me rest?