Trigger Happy

Savage:
This is absolutely savage;

How does
The night turn so dark?
The breeze turn so cold?
The pain turn so real?

Logic:
There is absolutely none.

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Such Fickleness

I sit around waiting,
waiting for somebody,
In fact for anybody,
to come along;

I stare at the aisle and at the shelves,
So full of people words and love,
But they are fictitious and stay stuck on pages,
They cannot come alive nor become real; 

There were days when I lament about people,
Why they are always talking and disrupting,
But when days of emptiness and quiet strike deep,
I wish for even a light whisper or perhaps just a warm smile;

Such fickleness in the mind of a young soul,
Perhaps this is what makes us at times so cold.