The hunger is the same:
a fragile ego wrapped in an offensive T-shirt,
the science of dominance where
one man’s status requires another’s silence.
It’s all a learned rhythm—
the pulse of insecurity disguised as strength,
a desire to own the air all others breathe.
Look closely at the General’s stars,
and you will see the classroom ghost.
The big kid, the "mouthy" one,
trading the tarmac of the playground for a country’s border,
the grass for a graveyard.
It begins with a clenched fist
and a slow diktat muttered through clenched teeth:
“It’s my ball, so I decide who plays.”
It ends with a finger on a trigger:
“It may be your land, but my gun is bigger.”
From the playground scuffle to the scorched earth,
the logic never matures.
What was once minor friction
swells into a worldwide dispute
a fight over oil, or water, or land.
The world is just a bigger playground to lord it over,
a larger area to hold dominion.
It’s my playground. It’s my ball.
History remembers the names:
the bossy children who never grew up,
who bullied siblings in quiet hallways
before they silenced cities with harsh,
soul-less warnings.
The "perfect storm" is rarely a mystery;
it is just the shadow of a small boy
stretched across the world’s surface,
turning all into night.
Aggression is a hollow victory;
an imposition is never a resolution.
Whether in the soil or on the map,
the bully wins the game
but loses the world.
