We are born to feel,

the touch with which our wounds will heal

the hate which tarnishes our souls

and trust which brings down our walls.

We are made to yearn for,

the caress with which makes our heart will soar

The passion of being in love,

to cling to the hopes attributed with the heavens above

But still, we are made to endure,

the ache of a broken heart.

Rummaging the world for a cure;

to fix what has been torn apart.

To relive memories now too old.

To stand on that warm threshold:

Of being in love, of being loved.

Only to realize that it has grown too cold.

Because that's just who we are.

We hope only to have it snatched away.

We dream only to be awakened.

We love only to be broken.

I am not happy with the title. Will probably change it later.