Flesh and bone
A purpose, if you’re lucky
Suppression if you’re not.

Why are some men carved in the enduring stone of history
While others wither without a beat?

Do all individuals have a purpose?
If so, why is the mass of us mute?
Are we afraid? Of what?

Men are not sheep, we harbor the power of thought
We birth ideas, divulge in private imaginations
Fall victim to palpable, ruthless emotions

Why do we fall for the harsh hand of hatred?
Why do we obey when we’re told to hate?
Why do we consume ludicrous lies? And come back for more?

Why don’t we think?
Why owns us? Who owns these sheep?
These cowards.

Why listen to the oppressors?
Why betray our organic instincts to indulge in liberty, bliss?
If you stand for nothing, you will fall for anything.

We are fed by the men who promise our liberation
We are fed by the men who laugh at our gusto to oblige
We are fed by the men who are foreigners to hunger
By men whose cup had run over, indefinitely.

Fight.
Rave against the obligations; the safe, the expected.

So eager to lavish wars on the kin of a different creed
Knowing that they bleed and hurt just the same as we do
Knowing that the deep purple color of their blood is akin to our own

It begs me to ask: who do you belong to?
Your brothers or the ruse?
Humanity or your government?