The CIA
I wore no uniform—
just silence and suits.
A ghost in global rooms,
a whisper behind the curtain.
I was a civilian,
but my job was war.
They called it "analysis,"
but what I did was study souls.
The psychology of power—
Presidents, rebels, kings.
We knew their childhoods,
their fears,
their fault lines.
I was trained to see through smiles.
To know,
from a handshake,
what could break a man.
Africa.
We watched it like a hawk.
A map of minerals,
and men we could move like pawns.
We flew them to Washington,
dinners and flags,
and while they smiled for cameras,
we read their eyes,
filed their secrets,
decoded their pride.
Every trip—
a trap.
Every handshake—
a scan.
Instability was our most valuable currency.
If a leader dreamed too loud,
if a nation dared to rise,
we lit fires in its shadows.
We funded chaos,
armed ghosts,
named them rebels.
Terror was not born—it was designed.
I have walked through cities burning from our whispers.
I have read reports
on coups we engineered
like boardroom mergers.
We called it "foreign policy."
But it was a slow, brutal theft—
of futures, of hope, of sovereignty.
No country escapes us
without scars.
Only the strong,
the truly awake,
can untangle our web.
I was just a civilian,
but I held nations in my briefcase.
And now I see:
Power without soul
is the truest form of evil.
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