In life of pain,

What’s there to gain?

When pictures are made by paint,

Then we are a saint.

If cause a sin,

Then it’s drawn in pen.

Then why is my heart torn.

I torn my heart,

With a special dart.

With an open heart,

Our emotions falling apart.

For now they are destroyed,

Forever and now.

One sees all,

And all sees different.

To see one fall,

It has to repent.

For when it’s sent,

It is forced to be bent.

As when there is a call,

I again shall fall.

When to rest,

Is for the best,

But yet it’s a pest.

Yet still for the best.