Heart broken soul broken. Bloke becomes a living cadaver Every swain in depression With some whose lovers shoved off Stingingly putting them on reprover
And others chasing money and mystique Ruining swains mental order We adore them even though they return only distress They give only scars performing manoeuvre
We remould ourselves why? For their bliss We renunciate ourselves To clasp them and never let them go and miss But that never arrives really too soon We implore them we detain But later we realise that our love was amiss
They play with us And make us give ourselves loathe Loathe for adoring them And yes time never heals It's just we become habitual to miss them daily but not weep. No one actually moves on It's their reminiscence with which we troth At the end I would say This heart break is something which prevents our growth.