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.