I was fifteen, and perhaps he was too
Summer had just begun — the last veil of ice had melted away.
This summer felt strangely alive;
something stirred inside me, restless and unnamed.
I couldn’t quite touch it, yet it never left.
My heart raced wildly through every thought,
then suddenly stopped — breathless — at one single place.
They say the mind moves faster than anything;
that summer, I lived inside its speed.
School holidays had spilled open.
People poured out of their homes like sunlight.
The lake shore bloomed with laughter —
picnic mats and baskets spread under whispering trees.
The Rebel Poem, The Dictator of Democracy
He is the Tyrant, the iron-fisted Despot,
He rules with tyranny’s cruel, unyielding fist—
The Dictator of Democracy’s mighty realm,
That autocrat, that overlord of hollow freedom’s hymn.
Arrogant and haughty, swollen with pride,
He preys on tender maidens, pure and wide-eyed.
He snaps the spine of every law and chain,
Worships the Devil in his blood-drenched reign.
He taunts the little ones with venomous glee,
Then drinks their crimson life without mercy.
We ourselves crowned this monster on the throne—
The people’s choice, now lord of flesh and bone.
He bathes the world in rivers of scarlet flood,
