I write in contrived rhyme,
Of love found, and of love lost,
Through the years, what I achieved
And exactly what it truly cost.

Why do most get a careless sleep,
When dark thoughts harass me so?
Why do I ask these stupid questions,
When their answers I already know?

Giving of myself comes easy;
Though I am no stranger to my worth;
I ought to be less human to
Carry on life, no matter the hurt.

I am tired of this roller coaster,
I am tired of the bitterness and pain,
I’m even tired of the truthful smiles,
That I know will surely come again.

I know love alters, when it shouldn’t,
I know death hangs around to take us all,
Yet I know I’d do it all just the same,
For I know, I’ve, within, the wherewithal!