A Book of Death

Inspiration is a fickle thing.

You cannot force inspiration.

You can only wait and hopefully, only hopefully, will inspiration come to you and you will be blessed with its magic. Inspired.

You see the world go up in flames

and watch as people die by guns

Hit and run - that’s what they’re best at

Screams echo down the street as air becomes smoke.

You are not strong like Heracles. You are not fast like an arrow or a bullet. You are not clever enough to be a general, and you are not qualified to be a medic.

So you write. Your words become your weapon, pencil sharpened to a point lethal enough to kill. The lance you wield best in the battlefield.

You fight to keep your own sanity as the world descends into chaos. As madness takes the world by storm. You hold on to words and broken promises as the wind sweeps everything away, leaving you naked and bare, vulnerable to the world.

An outlet of pain, blood and tears. Solidarity and mutiny. A call to battle, a call for peace. In no man’s land none will be spared. Resist while you can, the people sing.

So words become a game, a dance to never directly reveal what you truly mean. Your best form of retaliation, mild and weak but bullet proof. They can kill you, but they can’t kill ideas.

Words are all you have left, yet empty words of deceit are all that they will offer you, from their corrupt thrones.

So I decided to write things plain, in my last post. So that everyone would know, the evils that came to pass, in a place where ‘freedoom’ is an empty word, a place where ‘justice’ is an empty word, twisted to achieve the government’s means. I wrote them all, in a book of death, bound in leather from my father’s hide, parchment from my skin, tied together with my mother’s hair, the ink made from my brothers and sisters' blood, my hand forced to keep writing even as I scream and scream and scream - “No.”.