PEN AND SWORD

Holding this pen feels
like healing open wounds.
Pen works like a sword,
the sword that pierces me
and my associates left to bleed.

Once I believed,
my pen could earn me living
but when the stomach emptied,
my faith flew from craft
and went straight to God.

God too didn't like questions,
wanted me to chant his highness.
I conflated hymns with tyranny.
God too said that,
he doesn't like me.

Now, when I search 
for any foe or friend.
I find I have nothing,
neither in hand nor in mind
except the pen 
that used to make me fine.

So, once again I tried,
but this time to write
something not true but great.
I suppose I must change,
the way I express,
in order to please not to depress.

And I wrote,
"Everything will be fine,
all lives that are lost
on borders or in attacks,
will be sent back.

God is ever-forgiving.
Each time you commit a crime,
just remember that 
donation for a holy land,
can perfectly wash your hands,
over accusations of sparking genocides.

When you can't sleep
'cause of sob and screams
of those hopeless helpless orphans,
put on your high grade ear-gears
and sleep your sleep of rest."

And they say this time too,
my pen was more depressing than ever.
I reckon it's only meant
to write the myth, the truth.

But what the damn could it change,
only bluffing for revolt.
I made a world of words,
supported by some work of papers.

Now I believe there's no place 
left for faith and trust.
Alas! what humans we are,
we expect humanity to humans
who crucified Jesus in the name of God.









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