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unsung, untitled

the military and the militants march
in unison, poke and pound
and their number raises
inversely proportional to peace and happiness
the military man has patriotic guns
a type, owned by nobody else
but only the militants
but gunmen, don't you shoot
your gun has no country
your bomb has no border
your patriotism smacks of blood
your light is becoming glum and grim
if you have to shoot me
call me a traitor and kill me
and i will not complain
and i will die for your country

unsung



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I'm worried
There is nothing I believe in
There is no one I can talk to
I have even started believing
There is nothing to believe
There is only opinion I hold
Only I'm made of living things
Death looks down upon them.
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