I stand on empty boxes,
amidst the mudsoaked earth,
while the the rain trails down
my face.
Activist and rioter
they call me -
with my dirty morals
and crude exhibits.

I am despised.

There is a battle raging
within myself
and fear I find
is the long road home -
emptiness on the beaten path.

My war is long and weary.

Someday, when the swords
are down,
we wil rise -
this melancholy world and I.
Pacifist is what I will be,
with my godly mannerisms
and indoctrinated soul.

I will be respected.

Poetry by abitofeve
Read 234 times
Written on 2013-08-23 at 03:19

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