Let the lost fight the infidel
And the infidel strike the lost!
Let our tribes go to battle
And our little peace serve as guns
Let our preferences go to war
And our differences serve as bombs
These may be the seeds which will feed our dead bodies
…after it all

Let our voices shout down our ears
And our fingers pluck out our eyes
Let our teeth chew on our egos
And our nails scratch out our pride
Feed our hurts to obese in hatred
And nurse our insecurities to grow into our mess
These may be the seeds which will feed our dead bodies
…after it all

For I see you crave blood even when it is your source of life
I can see you wear prejudices
…even when you were born a clean slate
I can see you let the world you’ll leave
Dictate the life only your mind will be audience to
…when one jump calls for your expiration
I can see development is your nemesis
Peace is your enemy
Love is your assasin
And harmony is your poison
So go onto the battlefield of nonsense all you extremists
And kill away our existence
That may be the only way we might be able to feed our egos in our dead bodies
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © May 12, 2021

By amoafowaa

Just a simple Ghanaian trying to find the best in our society. I may be fun, I may be interesting, I may be funny, I may even be foolish or intelligent, but it is all based on the mood in which you find yourself. I believe our minds make us who we are. Know that, pain, no matter its 'unbearability', is transient. Unburden or delight yourself for a while in my writings please. And all corrections, advice and opinions are welcome. Know that you are the king, queen or royal on this blog. :)

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