Don't you feel bad for the children who sit in their room and cry, wishing they'd die? Who pray to God that they'll be okay, one day? Who blast their music real loud so no one will hear, them shedding a tear? Who've known hate all their lives, and end up feeling better with guns and knives? Who hope that someone will be their savior one day, and take them away, to a place that's never gray...

The souls of the children are dead and the poetry they wrote was never read. Why do people regret it now - they didn't care before. They didn't care when they tore...her heart out and ripped it in two, left her feeling blue. They just assumed she was okay. She was still breathing but her soul was gone...from the abuse. Yeah, I'd like to hear their excuse. They rarely hit her, but the words were enough...to make her feel weak, but she acted real tough. She was a soldier, dying to protect what she thought was right. But the fight was too great. She had to give up...

So where do you go when you're all alone? With no place in the world to call home? With no room in your heart for love? When all you've felt is hurt? When you've been treated like dirt? When nobody cares? When nobody dares...to help you? It hurts...

Yeah, sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me. But what if those words come like bullets, and every sentence was a shot to the head? Would it hurt then? Would the words from my pen mean a thing? No. Listen to the words of the world and they'll kill you.
One shot
After
Another.
It hurts.