Final Poem
Helping Hands
The men who stand on the podiums before us
are the strings that hold everything together,
yet tear it apart.
They are not led by truth,
but guided by the hands of deception
Yet we know power is a mind game
run by these filthy hands of greed,
but choose to play into their games.
Power places a gun in the mouth of our nation,
the cold metal clattering on our teeth.
Pulling the trigger only for the feeling of selfish bliss,
leaving all loved ones behind to grieve.
We fight these wars only to get punctured
with bullets of pain and sorrow
from those we trust most.
And as we fight, cradled in these hands of deceit,
blood seeping from the seams of our torn bodies,
the men watch, turning back only to wave a supposedly somber goodbye
as they head to the next battle.
But power is a cycle
Never-ending like a beat
the beat of the helicopter blades,
the beat of gunshots,
the beat of hearts hammering in uniformed chests,
the beat of sluggish footsteps,
the beat of corpses staggering to their graves,
the beat of the hands applauding the men that follow behind them.
These men before us evoke fear;
leaving us to grip their every twisted word in hope
they can catch us in their warm embrace.
But as they cover our eyes with their worn palms,
blinding us from what lay behind the curtain of power,
the men brew a new concoction, turning us against our own humanity
as the fumes sear our innocent eyes.
Yet we march forward with bravado
as they watch; cloaked in the icy shadows.
Fulfilled.
The men who stand on the podiums before us
are the strings that hold everything together,
yet tear it apart.
They are not led by truth,
but guided by the hands of deception
Yet we know power is a mind game
run by these filthy hands of greed,
but choose to play into their games.
Power places a gun in the mouth of our nation,
the cold metal clattering on our teeth.
Pulling the trigger only for the feeling of selfish bliss,
leaving all loved ones behind to grieve.
We fight these wars only to get punctured
with bullets of pain and sorrow
from those we trust most.
And as we fight, cradled in these hands of deceit,
blood seeping from the seams of our torn bodies,
the men watch, turning back only to wave a supposedly somber goodbye
as they head to the next battle.
But power is a cycle
Never-ending like a beat
the beat of the helicopter blades,
the beat of gunshots,
the beat of hearts hammering in uniformed chests,
the beat of sluggish footsteps,
the beat of corpses staggering to their graves,
the beat of the hands applauding the men that follow behind them.
These men before us evoke fear;
leaving us to grip their every twisted word in hope
they can catch us in their warm embrace.
But as they cover our eyes with their worn palms,
blinding us from what lay behind the curtain of power,
the men brew a new concoction, turning us against our own humanity
as the fumes sear our innocent eyes.
Yet we march forward with bravado
as they watch; cloaked in the icy shadows.
Fulfilled.