Revolution Ignition

What will spark the new revolution?
What will be this generation's solution?

Will it be shots fired into a crowd?
Or a lone individual standing up proud?
As they shout it out loud.
And they preach about dreams,
and the meaning of things,
and the societal fabric
bursting apart at the seams.

Will it be the children out on the street?
With the scars and the hearts that still beat.
The ones with the cigarette burns in their arms,
and glass in their feet.
What do their eyes and their minds perceive?
While they live in the poverty
and pretend to believe
in a system that has nothing to offer but greed.

What will spark the new revolution?
What will be the new resolution?

Will it be hate spewed from the mouth?
Will it be rebels rising up from the south?
Will it be the killing of an entire race
As the world shuns and says "What a disgrace."
And they meet and they swear to put something in place
that will never allow it to happen again.
But it happens repeatedly to this day.
While the rest of the world turns up their chin,
the innocent victims plea and cry over kin,
and pray for some help and some protection.
And all we can say is "Such dismay,"
as we turn our heads away.
And slap "Save Darfur" stickers on the backs of our cars
And pretend that it will erase all of the scars.

What will spark the new revolution?
What will be the final conclusion?

Will it be bombs falling from the sky?
Or will it be the economy falling from on high?
While the families all cry
as they watch what they've earned shrivel and die.
The economist lie and call it a recession.
When really its just another great depression.
The economy, black attire, sits confined in its room
as the forever growing presence of doom
fills the void of its numbing repression
and slits its wrists, throat, in succession.

Will it be the assassination of a great man
Or a photo of a starving African
As she sits and stares from beyond the screen.
While the Bourgeoisie rub elbows with the Queen,
and the famous travel 'round in their limousines,
the rest of the world is haunted by screams,
screams from the horror of dying it seems.
Or perhaps the fear of living is what darkens our dreams.

What will spark the new revolution?
What will be the next evolution?

Will it be a writer with nothing but his pen?
Who battles it out between science and Zen.
And he writes it out loud.
And the people around tell him how proud
they are of his accomplishments. And he vows
to pull everyones' eyes out from behind the shroud.
Only to be silenced by the big mushroom cloud.

Maybe then the revolution will come.
And they'll battle it out with their wits and their guns.
And when the war is over, when the battle is done
and the side with more power, the side that has won
will start anew and with that more generations spawn.
And the generations will come and descend
and the wounds and the cuts will eventually mend
and the children will all ask "How did it begin?"
Their parents will proudly respond:
"With the whisper of a pen,
and the bang of a bomb."