Our leaders tell us war can be avoided,
but the past says different,
these leaders say wisdom will guide trembling hands, but where was this guidance previously?
hovering over the nuclear switch,
While the weight of our history presses heavy against the future,
a script we've read before,
tattered and frayed at the edges, blood-stained in the middle,
lives lost without pause.

These mighty Empires begin to fall and decline not with dignity,
but with the echoes and shouts of the desperate,
As they clutch at the last fragments of their power,
like broken glass cutting into a trembling fist.
Economies shrink while debt swells, promises empty and hollow,
while banners of "freedom" fray in the winds of the luming chaos.

Rising powers sharpen their teeth and prepare for the feast
on the bones of alliances formed in desperation,
silken agreements now unraveling in the heat
of trade wars and territorial dreams.
China's yellow brick roads stretch far,
binding continents in a golden snare while bridging indifference,
the West stumbles through days,
tripping over yesterday’s triumphs during nights of false comfort.

The war machine prepares while generals dream in algorithms now,
Old minds stepping to shadows as AI thought hums lullabies of control
over drones that dance across the sky,
but who programs caution?
Who codes regret?
A single spark,
miscalculated, misunderstood,
and the sky burns again, shadows and screams burnt into cold cement.

Oceans boil,
not from heat, but fury,
as Arctic ice melts into disputed borders,
and resource wars writhe in the depths.
The future generation drinks bitter water
from a cup cracked by climate's revenge.

Diplomats, hollow-eyed,
speak of "talks" and "sanctions,"
but beneath the table,
hands clutch at guns and knives.
Appeasement tastes of ash
a prelude, not a solution.

History's will say that Peace, is our inheritance, our new right.
what is peace really when it feels cheap and has worn too thin to cover the old scars that have never disappeared,
new wounds that burn.
The drums of this new war beat softly now, unheard in the distance
but still,
they beat when close enough there is unmistakable sound,
a rhythm we cannot unlearn.

And when the final ultimatum falls
in whispered threats and coded commands,
will we still feign surprise,
pretending the play was never rehearsed?

Welcome, dear soul, to the fiery embrace,
Where pleasure and sin find their rightful place.
Forget what you’ve heard, the lies they’ve spread
Hell’s not torment; it’s where life’s truly led.

Lust and desire aren’t vices to shame,
They’re art forms perfected in passion’s flame.
A dance of bodies, a feast of the flesh,
In Hell, these pleasures are always fresh.

Heaven may promise a cloud and a harp,
But its paradise is tepid, stale, and sharp.
No touch, no taste, no thrill of the chase
Just hymns on repeat in a sterile space.

Gluttony’s king in this molten domain,
With endless banquets and wine that won’t wane.
Greed’s not a crime but a game we adore
Dive into gold, there’s always more.

Envy and wrath? They fuel our fun,
Competitive flames under the devil’s sun.
Pride? Oh darling, we’ve mastered the art,
In Hell, self-love is the beating heart.

And let’s not forget our master below,
Lucifer, charming, with a radiant glow.
No ruler of chains, but a host with finesse,
Inviting you in with a wink and a jest.

Meanwhile in Heaven, they whisper and pray,
Clinging to halos that tarnish each day.
What do they do? Does anyone know?
All we’ve heard is “harps” and a dull golden glow.

Angels pretend it’s the place to reside,
But secretly sneak to our wild side.
Gabriel sings at our endless soirees,
While cherubs peek through Hell’s fiery haze.

So step through the gates and leave guilt behind,
In Hell, you’re free to indulge the mind.
Heaven can keep its rigid façade
Down here, we honor the lives you’ve led flawed.

Eternity’s waiting, the flames softly roar,
Welcome to Hell, your new, thrilling decor

Silver rivers stream,
overflow of love’s embrace,
grace spills without end.

Heart's chalice brimming,
nectar sweet as morning dew,
life’s kiss overflow.

Boundless tides arise,
soul’s deep well spills harmony,
love’s cup never still

What do you call the picture of self
My mind played my heart like a violin,
Time ticked by like an old clock’s hymn.
Standing at the edge of reason’s wall,
Where shadows rise and echoes call.

Questions dwell in unspent wells,
Is truth alive, or just the tales we tell?
As our age shapes grows and bends the arc of our frame,
We sketch and outline our self, yet never the same, at times defined while other abstracts
The picture of self oftentimes distracts.

What do you see when you gaze inside your mind, what holds the entirety of your heart in shaken grips girth.
A distant flicker or a star that died? What do you see when you look inside?
Does your quill pierce the foggy shroud, does it write in truth
Or is it lost in the crowding cloud?

Every action carves the soul,
Each stroke defining, yet never whole.
But who are we when the mirror lies,
When the smoke of others dims our skies?

Is your canvas real, or an abstract stain?
Do you wear your chains, or break the frame?
Does your rage hold you caged,
A prisoner of masks, a silent plea
To shatter the cage and set self free.

Society molds with hands unseen,
A puppeteer weaving the in-between.
They sell the self you never chose,
A fragile photograph, a fading pose.

Yet seeking truth is no weak refrain,
It’s the ship that sails through storms of pain.
For every lie the silence sows,
A spark of truth in the darkness grows.

Rationality falters; the heart endures,
Beyond the veil, where the soul matures.
So cast the map you think you know,
And sail where unlit waters flow.

Don’t we ever grow weary of this act,
This endless caring, this fragile art?
Caring how we feel, our hearts laid bare,
Caring how others feel, their burdens to share.
Yet seldom do we pause, seldom do we see,
That we don’t feel like them, nor they like we.

It seem loadsome and heavy this thing, to carry the we,
To make their troubles ours, their joy an act
Of mutual faith, though rarely do we see
An arm extended back, a mirrored art.
It tires the soul, this caring we share,
This weight we bear, our hearts threadbare.

why should we care anyways when hearts are bare and obsecured to be observed,
When the world is fractured more than the, not “we”?
Why should we extend when few choose to share,
When kindness is an act too rare to enact?
It seems a wiser step and much easier to master the art
Of apathy, to let the silence of care be as shadows gentle fall.

But this silence chills where warmth could be,
And empty hands find no measure in solace bare.
So we persist, weaving the frayed art,
Stitching the threads of "I" and "we."
Though tired, we play this timeless act,
For hope demands that we still share.

Yet hope alone cannot teach how to share,
Cannot fill the void where care should be.
Each gesture must be chosen, not just an act,
Each offering made from the soul laid bare.
Though broken, we rebuild the "we,"
A woven thread of hearts, our flawed art.

Perhaps it is this: the beauty of art,
The fragile beauty of daring to share,
That binds us, imperfectly, into a "we."
Though the effort aches, though joy may flee,
The soul is fuller when no heart is bare,
And life is richer when care is not an act.

So we care, not an act, but an art,
Barriers laid bare, and hearts we share.
Though tired, we be... we still choose to be "we."

A bird flew by and dropped a seed,  
It landed softly on fertile soil.  
With time, it grew, deep roots to hold,  
But the flower dreamed of fields afar,  
Longing to leave and reach the sky,  
Unbound, untethered, and free to roam.  

"Why must I stay when I wish to roam?"  
It asked as life stirred within the seed.  
The wind would whisper of the wide, free sky,  
Yet something held it fast to the soil.  
It yearned for adventures distant and far,  
But the earth, unyielding, kept its hold.  

The flower grew, but resented the hold,  
For its restless spirit was born to roam.  
It gazed at clouds that traveled far,  
And dreamed of the life beyond a seed.  
But all it had was the binding soil,  
Its roots too deep to touch the sky.  

"Help me!" it cried to the vast blue sky,  
"Loosen these roots and free their hold!"  
But no reply came from the watchful soil,  
Nor from the clouds that drift and roam.  
Even the rain ignored the seed,  
Its drops sinking deep, yet never far.  

The flower watched the birds fly far,  
Their wings alight beneath the sky.  
It envied creatures sprung from seed,  
Unfettered by the earth’s firm hold.  
Ants and bees would come and roam,  
Yet always it stayed within the soil.  

Seasons turned and nourished soil,  
While winds would carry whispers far.  
The flower, though fixed, began to roam
Not through the fields, but in the sky.  
Its radiant beauty took its hold,  
A miracle sprung from a simple seed.  

Bound by soil yet free in sky,  
The flower found that the deepest hold  
Was not in roots, but in dreams that roam.