where will the pain go?
Where will our creative depression, we know
It is this question that infuses our lives
In total agony, come out in hives
Of sadness, bleeding a martyrdom true
A trapped soul yet never seen through
Frustrated ambition, lust and doubt
Think: whatever would we talk about?
If we commit suicide, isn't it true
That we will lose all sense of hatred in bloom
We will be unable to see true pain
Although our lives will never be the same
The hurt that lives here, deep inside
Is hurt that though we tried and tried to ignore
We grew to love
And now I realise, the peace-giving dove
Flies over hell