To the heartbroken,
To the downtrodden,
To those who see no hope in the morrow,

The promise of good amounts to nought,
The aura of the sun's halo seems unlovely,
The sweet sound of the flute iritates,
And the Harmonic strumming of the guitar is noise.

Tears are therapeutic,
The pillow is a great consolation and the knees find use,

To the heartbreakers,
To the downtrodders,
To those who kill the hope for the morrow,

A smile is just for a moment,
And the laughter is just but forced,
But tears are must, though paused for a moment.

For when their victims finally find their hope.
They trade places automatically.