Where I come from

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Whose fault is it, I ask
If I am insensitive
To the 20 who died in some storm
Or the 200 who died in that bomb
You see, where I come from
There die more than you can count everyday
Not from storms, floods or earthquakes
Not from bombs, bullets or such trinkets
They die from things much more  fatal
They die from love and heartbreaks
They die from hope and disappointment
They die yearning for memories old
They die fearing what Future may hold
They die from hearts that turned to stone
They die from blood that ran too cold
Whose fault is it then, I ask
If I am insensitive
Because, you see where I come from
There die more than you can count everyday
You see, where I come from
People no longer have a say
Their hearts don’t thaw
Their blood’s run stale

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Those days

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There will be days when you will want to cry but tears won’t come.There will be days where everything would seem meaningless and emotions will be hollow. There will be days when even the funniest jokes would leave you broken on the bathroom floor later. There will be days when you will be surrounded by people—friends, but you’ll be lonelier than ever. And they will try to cheer you up, and you’ll fake a smile.

Then there will be days when all you’ll want to do is be alone. Just you and your penknife. Your skin as your canvas. Your clothes damp with blood that’s been running stale.
And let me tell you, it will be on days like these that reality will hit you. You’ll be able to filter your friends from acquaintances. You’ll finally be able to see what actually matters—who actually matters.
It will be after days like these, that you will find Him caressing your soul. The fog will clear as you free yourself from that black hole you used to call life. It will be peace from the on. Eternal peace.
For no one disturbs the dead.