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I have wrapped a band-aid all over my body,
Coz it hurts everywhere,
But I don’t heal like people often do.
I carry my pain like a parched woman
Carrying a pot of water
Miles for her children
In a deserted land.
I don’t know why sear feels good,
Maybe it’s closer to the edge,
Some say that’s the way to live
As if they know all about living,
But I have known nothing but the edge
And yet I am constantly dying.
My loss is eternal,
Its pain is internal,
No amount of ointment
Can make it all okay
Despite they advertise so
In tiny colorful words – meaningless
When you have never stood on them.
And it’s the wretched in me
That asks for the wretched,
Like the sun that keeps exploding in itself,
While the world rejoices in its misery.
We do know how to have a good time
While our kin suffers in silence.
Now all I do is endure
In plain sight,
With a straight face,
Some shut-eye,
And quaff down my drink,
Hoping my band-aid to do
What it promised.

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