poem

MY THOUGHTS ON PEN

Wherever you go, people don’t always talk and think like you Through the years I’ve tried to see the good in every man But ended up cynical about life, love and misery. Life is what we make it If we don’t do a thing, what are we then? We live, we love, we get hurt, we die. Just as all cycles do, we wake up the next day To live and love again, to get hurt and die bitter Happiness and hurt, both are things of the past by then