The golden book of Machiavel:
the philosophy that opened the door to hell.
Although it's as shallow as a shell.
It rang in the ears of politicians like a bell.
To put it in a nutshell;
manipulation is the key
to gain all treasures your eyes can see
a dictator you most be.

On the endless freedom of an adult, I dwell.
With gleaming eyes, I yell:
"Can't wait to get older."
Naively neglecting the fact that as I grow older, my body and soul will molder.

"When I'm older, I will change the world!"
Sadly, as I got older, the white flag of surrender unfurled.
looking back, youth was my only chance
to make this world ever so slightly advance.

As a child, I learned the importance of friends.
As a teen, I learned to view the world through the right lens.
As an adult, I learned the importance of a dime.
As an elder, I learned the wisdom that comes with time.

From giggling on the floor with my best friend.
To hours on the desk, I spend.
To watching my friends, one after the other, fall.
Now, I have seen it all.

Drenched in sweat and blood.
Waiting for the loud thud,
I patiently standstill.
Silently praying that our plan doesn't go downhill.

A sudden loud bang breaks the heavy silence.
A wave of relief passes over me. We won. No need for more violence.
Now, for once and all, I Can remove my demilance.
Someone shouted my name. "Don't!" they yelled.
My body compelled,
but only a moment too short.
I could feel my skin tear apart. I was warm then cold. It was happening too fast for me to sort.
For before my eyes, a foolish-looking man had pulled the trigger.
The pool of blood around me only grew bigger.

Feeling peaceful and dazed I stood there,
silently saying my last prayer.
I could hear someone swear.

A flood of people ran over to me.
I wanted to tell them not to worry, that I will finally be set free.
I wanted to say something: to make a sound.
I was facing up as I hit the ground.
The blue sky was too beautiful that I forgot how to speak.
Our flag was standing tall and proud at the mountain peak.
So many lives were lost for that flag to be there, in the pursuit of liberation.
Yet, ironically enough the only ones liberated are those who left this world of indignation.

I couldn't see the sky anymore.
I was back at home.
I and my best friend were childishly giggling on the floor.
Then, in a thick swirl of foam,
the setup changes to that of a car.
I am happily singing my heart out as if I am some rockstar.
Now I'm in my bedroom dancing like a mindless titan with my little sibling.
The scene changes to that of a school, my friend is calmly scribbling.
In another swirl, I can see my mother.
In the distance, my sisters are chasing each other.
It's just a normal sunny day at the shore.
Now I am back at the headquarters, planning the war.

A sudden pain hovers over me.
I can feel my soul flee.
Now I am at the final scene: my grave. A little child points at it and says: "look mommy that grave is growing an olive tree!"
Alas, I have been set free.

I'm getting consumed by this fever.
The vicious flames of a once happy believer.
I have almost forgotten the heaviness that comes with a feverish soul.
Beautiful golden Mercure-like blood dripping from the spirit I tore.

I can see glimpses of a blue sky lingering inside of my mind.
An unconfirmed reality too good for me to hide.
The soft rayons of the sun run softly across my face.
Giving me the courage to face my deepest desires with such grace:

To lead a life amidst death as the divine angel who can save the day.
What a beautiful role to play.
The invincible soldier we all hail.
The living church of those astray.

The mere purpose itself is noble, worthy.
Yet the motive is contradictory.
But please let me be.
I don't want to live as a corpse, a nightmare I don't want to see.

It is the close encounters of death's kisses that make me feel the most alive.
It is against the slow death of modern life that I strive.
It is the suffering with others that makes me feel the most alive.
It is against the slow death of a meaningless life that I strive.
It is the heavy panting, the fractured bones, the silence after a shared battle that makes me feel the most alive.

I can hear the cry to war as gentle as a whisper,
as quiet as the calm before the thunder.
In this world of sweet blood and sweat and rain, I wish to wander

Feeling anxious,
that poetry can be my sanction.
Looking for a distraction,
I put down my pen,
reminiscing back to when
I dared to win
in my internal fights.
Only if I could do it again,
go back to the feast of lights.
Where even on the dreary nights,
it was the best of sites.

I think I should just wait forever.
As time puts my pieces all together.

Slowly and a little akwardly