The call of WW III

In a world choking on its own bloated sense of self,
where the streets are lined with the fattened souls
of the comfortable and the coddled,
we stand at the edge of something grand—
or something grim.

The Great Soft, they’ll call it.
A time where we clutch at our gadgets
like talismans, forgetting that wisdom’s
been left in the dirt.
We parade our lives as if they matter,
documenting breakfast, lunch, and every thought,
while the universe chuckles in the background.

Leisure’s become our new religion,
where we critique the stars from our sofas,
wrapped in blankets of smugness,
and addiction is our daily bread.
Addicted to likes, to outrage,
to the sweet sting of being offended.
We’re junkies for the trivial,
and we revel in the intoxication.

Happiness, we demand,
but to earn it? To fight for it?
Not in this era. We want the summit,
but the climb? Too much work.
And fame, that glittering promise,
we chase it with desperation,
only to curse it once it’s in our grasp,
ungrateful for the very pedestal
we begged for.

Politics, once a noble pursuit,
is now a circus of clowns,
where we elect the fools
and then act surprised
when they juggle our lives into chaos.
We blame, we accuse, we fabricate,
stirring the pot of our own pathetic existence.

So I say, with eyes blazing and no grin at all—
bring on the war. Not for the love of fire,
but for the love of truth.
Let the bombs fall and the cities crumble,
let the streets run red,
if that’s what it takes to shake us awake.

Purge the weak, the soft,
the endlessly offended who cringe at every word.
Let war be the harsh teacher,
the cold slap in the face we so desperately need.
When survival is at stake,
suddenly, the petty squabbles of our pampered lives
won’t seem so important.

Elect me not as your leader,
but as the executioner with the axe,
the one who’ll press the button
and watch the world burn,
not out of malice,
but out of necessity.

This war is not a metaphor,
it’s the reckoning we’ve earned.
Let history be our judge,
and let the flames cleanse us
of the rot that’s set in too deep.
Let the weak fall away,
and in the aftermath,
maybe, just maybe,
we’ll find ourselves again.

So, rally to the call of Cathartic Conflagration.
Not for destruction’s sake,
but for the rebirth that only fire can bring.
In the ashes of what was,
we might just find what should be—
not just survival,
but a life worth living.

Vote for me,
and let’s press that button together,
not with a grin,
but with the grim determination
that this world needs to burn
if it’s ever to be reborn.