About it All

Hovering above my head,
I sit here on my bed,
Staring down at the paper,
Having written it earlier.

I don't know if it is right,
Even though it took all might,
Maybe we aren't meant to do,
The things we do anyway.

Reading about all,
Poems short or tall,
Misery and happiness,
Always end up with pain.

Looking back into the past,
Seeing how long pain can last,
Doing what we shouldn't do,
But enforcing our thoughts to do it.

Cutting and crying,
Our shoes and souls need tying,
But in the end,
Always comes,
A good friend.