We all love history when it's written in blood

with a pen dipped in the neck of a man

written in cursive- ink red or dark,

We're all headless- walking around,

Not sure whether to hold the book or the gun,

We pick up the pen,

Our natural proclivity until we discern,

Perceiving the end, yet, our books are not being read,

Because the attention is to the men in a land that isn't theirs

fighting a war that isn't right,

is that right?

We live a story where tribes are liberated from their lands,

Political systems, crumbling oppression

from the bigger nations, burning books and dropping bombs,

They won't stop.

They can't stop.

I don't need to be liberated from my house,

I'm not trapped, I'm not bonded,

I'm not held up in my basement

I could leave if I wanted,

The phrase that they shouted.