War does not stop for the good man who dies.
War is too cold for the good man to warm.
There goes his leg as artill'ry takes his arm.
War does not stop when in pieces, he lies.

War does not stop for the child who cries.
There is no umbrella can hold that great storm.
The tears of the orphan resound in the form
Of the news that is silent to pleading and sighs.

War is a hellfire like none else on earth.
When war rages on, who minds the hearth
In home which must necessity bind
For no one is list'ning, no one is kind.

The demons have run, the children have sobbed
For men unknown, upon whom, the red gunfire daubed.

What in these symbols has power?
None of my letters could build you a tower,
But something within the screen of my phone
Has mass, has inertia, has song, has tone.

Where are the electric lines?
Neither hither nor thither, whichever one signs
But for some reason, I can't help but feel
That my electric lines are something more real.

What are the squiggles that wave from afar?
A symbolic cookie from an imagined jar?
Or are they a prize for forming a speak
That, through my squiggles, may squeak?

Hello. I am words.
I have taken your voice, stolen your swords
But still you read onwards
Though be it for naught?
For I am just words. But you truly
Are not.

Don't tell me how to live my life
Don't tell me what to do
Don't tell me what you've learnt
For I shall learn it soon.

Prometheus.
That's what they call me.
Your heart, phoenix fire.

Pots with feelings littered here
Some with courage, others fear
The day we know will draw so near...
But death is certain, crystal clear.

Pots with cracks will herd their steer,
And, from the cracks, eyes peek and peer
The un-chipped *** just cannot see
Through imperfection, we find beauty.

The gentle apathy
Which, up to now,
Had carried me
So softly through the forest here
Abruptly stopped when you drew near.
I couldn't help but be interested
In everything you'd do.
The world had grown old on me,
But somehow it seems so new
But only around you.