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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