Here I am send me

I'm willing to blow myself up and all those infidels to smithereens

What for?

To go to paradise of course.

Where's your leader?

Off hiding in some cave laughing hysterically.

So where are you now?

I'm dead and rotting.

Here I am,send me.

I done kiss my mama goodbye

I'm gone fight war for Uncle Sam 

What for?

I dunno, I think is to stop terrorism and to make my homeland and my mama proud

Where's your leader?

You lie

While she listened with the forced pretense of being naive

Even though she was pathetically transparent

You run away

While she pretended not to care

She hurts inside even more

Though you never knew

Don't worry about the mess that you made

She sits in the smouldering remains of the fortress that she once built

Someone will clean up this tragic aisle after you

Eye sore with my third I

Enough to make the stoic agonize and struggle in their slumber

Thoughts foaming in the heated cauldron of their minds

Words jumping up in a frenzy

Pricking the tips of their tongues,

Just waiting impatiently to be let out into the open

Like unruly children

I have become that resonating voice

That you've vainly fought to place into

Evanescence of your dead conscience

The shadow that you dare not look at

For it mimes your evil actions

Life is filled with misery and sorrow

Why can't you accept it?

And cease trying to be a fearless hero

But an ego trip you've gone and you try to mask it.

Whose life are you going to save,

When there's no ransom on your head?

But yet you roam on this spherical grave,

Surrounded by the living dead.

Gloating over the small feats you've accomplished

Undefeatable wars,visible,are raging but you carry on so ignorant

Soon to foolishly perish

Smile at me again,

You know I am your friend,

Yet, you leave me not a candle in the dark;

Lady, I had reason

To believe in changeless season,

And in dogs that do not bite and seldom bark…

Daughter of the Elderbroc,

Sister turned to wine,

Mother of my child and of my pain:

I tried to paint my seasons

To the colors of your reasons,

Devoid of rhyme, time and time again…

Did it happen so slowly that we missed it?

This old heart says I’ve sinned…

Sit here breaking no new ground,

I’m only breaking wind,

But, in the grand tradition,

I burn the midnight lamp,

And sit here, poised with pen in hand:

An imperious knight,

With a serious Writer’s Cramp…

With miles to go before I reach

The City of my dreams,

Where poets walk the streets and each

Writes poetry by the reams;

Yet, in the corner where I stand

The ticking of the clock