It seems that everyday;
troubles come and make our day,
Just when I hold boredom at bay,
At that happy beach I used to lay.
When once come one must return,
The exchange of this will make our desire burn,
All just might make we but stern,
All choices do appear but I will not turn.
My heart, my root, and my canal,
All those emotions they may fell,
No righteous so rebellious that I should repel,
My pride is my glory that I would never sell.
They might say and he shall ask,
To what are you doing at this time of dusk?
I shall say do not make a fuss,
This is my necessity so it is a must!
In time of pain that I shall seek,
The truth in the dirt I still dig,
Without troubles in our days what can we see?
Devoid of that; what would life be?
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