Not by rope from a branch nor by knife upon flesh have my pains been given to yield.

But by words on a page do I yet seek to make my wounds to become healed.

Thoughts like demons cast out to be left behind to help me better see the road still ahead.

Perhaps to see smiles and love once more, but if not, a world where I crave less to be dead.

Love is a priceless gift
It cannot be bought or sold
But it's value is much more greater,
than a mountain of pure Gold.
For pure Gold is cold and lifeless,
it can neither see nor hear
and in the time of trouble,
it is powerless to cheer
It has no ears to listen,
no heart to be able to understand
It cannot bring you comfort
Or reach out a helping hand.