#50 (from, ‘What's Really Happening - In 54 numbers’)
Each love is like racing cars,
Driving through the final line;
Wounds from losing - all its scars,
Shiver up your spine.
You, the driver of speed car,
Formulates through the years;
Rotten deals with feelings are,
Making clouds from tears.
Take the car and steer it well,
To lives fortunes and each fame;
You could likewise drive to hell,
It's a speed life's game.
Comments about this poem (#50 (from, ‘What's Really Happening - In 54 numbers’) by Peter S. Quinn )
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