My suicide is meaningless:

My entirety is divided.
My nation is diluted
among the forces that be:
the blasé capture
of an entire generation.

I have the formula
for total intellectual destruction
HELD IN MY HANDS,
waiting patiently, like a gasoline phoenix,
to flitter into the sky and light them all ablaze.

WILL THIS REVOLUTION EVER COME?
We’ve sat and waited for an eternity.
We can taste the variance on our tongues,
The glorious overthrow,
The insurgence of reason,
Our manifest manifestation,
Shushed like the underagers
Among the concrete and the bedsheets
And the capitalistic seesaws and battlegrounds
That separate the artistic from the mundane.

I am having a hell of a time
Keeping in line with the flame.
I need this universal theme
Of progression and pain
To bury and bloom
Into a love of our opportunity-
For the mutual welfare and brotherhood
Of progress.

My suicide may be meaningless, but yours would change everything.