What a routine, Boston. Streets filled with bombing fleets; doesn’t it make you think of running away? New York is filled with sorrow still and we know how Oklahoma feels. What the hell is going on? What a routine, Boston. They say the cure is Christian love and that help will come down from above, but I don’t buy that for a bit, what you need is a candle lit, to bring about the light that’s been shattered, to ignite the heart that’s been tattered. What a routine, Boston. This is when I am sorry doesn’t cut it, when speaking words may as well be gutted. There is no time or rhyme to explain your pain, when sorrow appears and there is no gain. How could men walk the streets with their heads up high knowing that people died because they chose to act a coward, fuck your reasons and climb your tower? What a routine, Boston. Today is a day we really need love, not God, not Buddha, simply love. But will we get it? Will we change? Is the world so evil? Or can we rise above the hate? Men have pondered for ages now, but all they seem to do is have a cow. The news will play their horrid role by exploiting stories and showing the toll. What we need is not information or condemnation what we need is a nation that is fighting temptation to not go back and hide and not show our faces but this is the time to rise and hasten the day is coming when we will need each other, when God is gone and you don’t have your brother, we need a world filled with love not hate, but the time is so close, so lets not be late. The people in power will tell us our struggles like we don’t already know and how dare your gurgle those words in your mouth, do you think you are smart? This world doesn’t need politicians it needs electricians to cause a few sparks and end all the dark. What a routine, Boston. I hope these words have inspired a few, and I hope these words have reached someone like you. It pains me to see you in such a bad place, but truly all I can say: What a routine, Boston.