Long Machiavelli Poems
Long Machiavelli Poems. Below are the most popular long Machiavelli by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Machiavelli poems by poem length and keyword.
O Donald Trump, your crown was earned
By chants of hope from those who yearned.
They dreamed you'd end the endless fight,
And lead them from the dying night.
You rose not as a common name—
But as a symbol wrapped in flame.
“Make America great,” you cried,
Yet truth and action soon divide.
For bombs still fall in lands afar,
And peace lies broken by your war.
You spoke of walls, of strength, of pride,
While millions weep and sleep outside.
You mocked the weak, empowered the strong,
And sang the old imperial song.
But greatness is not built on fear,
Nor made through wealth when none is near.
The people cry for bread, not war,
Yet you have opened every scar.
The money flows to fuel and guns,
While schools collapse and hunger runs.
O Trump! If Machiavelli spoke,
He’d warn you of the crown you broke.
The prince must lead with tempered grace,
And not betray the people’s face.
Socrates would ask you still:
Do you govern by truth or will?
Can virtue thrive where ego reigns?
Can justice rise in gilded chains?
The empire groans beneath the lie,
And history’s ink will not run dry.
Will they recall a man who healed—
Or just the mask behind a shield?
Donald Trump, the path is near,
To lead with heart or rule by fear.
Undo the harm, begin again—
Or be remembered not as a man,
But as a warning to all men.
If we say only a white male is ok,
Have we violated the law in someway?
What if we say the opposite?
Only a black female fits the requisite.
Do you now consider,
Ihre papiere, bitte
The proper way
In the USA
Here's something to think about.
If you google "lies about"
And the page of results is all "lies by",
Has google just told a lie?
Why is freedom of the press,
For so many a one way address?
The constant clamor to suppress
Opposing views that are confessed.
Is it just a bad dream,
Or has Machiavelli become mainstream?
At least to me it seems
Too many are fine with the ends justifying the means!
Truth is heavy.
That is why
only the brave
carry it.
When you speak it,
you stand alone.
Crowds prefer silence.
Silence is safer.
The world is full
of cowards.
So cowards are governed
by fools.
Europe decays.
Africa bleeds.
The earth burns.
And you watch.
Wars are waged
by idiots.
They shout.
You nod.
Children fall
in Ukraine.
In Gaza.
In Congo.
In Sudan.
In Libya.
Their cries rise.
Your courage does not.
When truth is written,
you exile it.
Not to protect peace,
but to please power.
Demons wear titles.
Madmen wear suits.
Merchants of death
call themselves leaders.
Democracy crowns them.
Cowardice keeps them.
Money buys your silence.
Fear signs the contract.
Dignity is sold
cheaply.
Machiavelli knew this:
a state dies
not by enemies,
but by obedient men.
The world burns
while you watch.
Not because you are weak—
but because
you chose
to be
the Coward.
I entered the Capitol.
I saw men who rule
without sitting on thrones.
Their hands were empty,
yet their commands were full.
America acts,
but does not decide.
Orders travel
faster than conscience.
I looked into the eyes
of the Prince.
I saw not a man,
but an echo.
He spoke,
yet another voice
moved his tongue.
Alliances became chains.
Protection became obedience.
The state served
what it did not govern.
Europe followed,
heads bowed politely.
Payrolls replace principles.
Silence replaces courage.
An empire rarely conquers
with soldiers.
It conquers with debts,
favors,
and fear.
The people sleep,
trusting masks.
When they wake,
the state is hollow.
Machiavelli warned:
power survives
only while it appears legitimate.
When trust dies,
even gold cannot rule.
If the hidden crown
wishes to endure,
it must choose harmony
over domination.
For no power survives
once it is seen.
A covert narcissist dressed in a hand-me-down victim cloak,
Master of the tear-tantrum tactic —
He sniffles, sobs, and simpers until your defenses drop,
Then slides a betrayal in your back so smooth you almost thank him.
A codependent parasite latched to his mother’s emotional tit like a tick,
Bound by an enmeshed dynamic so tight you'd think she birthed him twice.
He’s 40 going on 14,
Displaying classic symptoms of Peter Pan Syndrome with a sprinkle of Oppositional Defiance Disorder every time life whispers “grow up.”
Zero employment history,
But extensive experience in triangulation, gaslighting, and learned helplessness.
He’s the CEO of deflection, a PhD in projection,
Weaponizing guilt like a toddler with a grenade.
He calls you "too emotional,"
Right after he weeps his way out of another confrontation
Like a soggy Machiavelli.
He’s not just a mama’s boy.
He’s her emotional husband,
Their emotional incest dressed up as devotion,
While he lets her make every decision
Between his gaming sessions and tantrums.
He’s the kind of man who, if given a mirror,
Would still find a way to blame the reflection for his failures.
In the halls of the
United Nations
truth walks slowly.
Speeches travel faster.
António Guterres,
are you leading—
or following?
A throne of diplomacy
was given to you.
Not to decorate silence.
But to confront power.
Yet the world burns.
Gaza
is smoke.
Lebanon trembles.
Syria bleeds.
Iran stands
under the shadow of war.
Inside the chamber
men speak of peace.
Outside the chamber
guns answer.
This is the theatre of nations.
A place where rulers perform
virtue
while power writes the script.
Machiavelli knew this truth:
A prince who cannot act
becomes a symbol.
And symbols
do not stop wars.
Tell me then—
What is the value
of a council of nations
that cannot restrain
the violence of kings?
What is the worth
of authority
that commands no obedience?
If power hides behind speeches
it becomes ritual.
And ritual
comforts the powerful
while the weak suffer.
The world listens
to the sound of declarations.
But history listens
for courage.
For in the end
the question is simple:
Did the chair of power
guide the world—
or merely watch
as it burned?
O Confederation of the West—
You were not born to conquer shadows,
But to outlive them.
Power is not noise,
It is silence understood by all.
You fear the bear in the east,
But he was your brother once—
Did you not share a winter once in Berlin’s broken breath?
Yet now,
You sharpen your swords
Where olive branches once bloomed.
He holds gas, grain, and grit—
Energy, the blood of industry.
Why then do you cut your own veins
To prove that your heart still beats?
Sun Tzu speaks:
> “If you know the enemy and know yourself,
You need not fear a hundred battles.”
But what if the wisest war
Is one never fought?
The greatest general is not he who marches,
But he who never must.
You boast of unity—thirty blades drawn,
But who feeds your people
As they choke on cold debts and hollow stomachs?
You send sons to distant deserts,
While grandmothers burn bills for warmth.
You say China is threat,
Yet buy his silk, his circuits, his steel.
Is this strategy?
Or is it ego in uniform?
The world no longer bows to gunpowder,
But to algorithms, hydrogen,
And trust.
Machiavelli warns:
> “A wise prince builds alliances with reason,
Not resentment.”
Do not call thunder to chase away whispers.
For in chasing ghosts,
You awaken giants.
Peace is not surrender.
It is the longest and hardest war—
Where patience is the weapon,
And dignity the shield.
So listen, NATO:
Conquer not by arms, but by architecture.
Let the bridges you build
Outnumber the bombs you store.
For in a world wounded by empires,
The true superpower
Is restraint.
A lie
has short legs.
It cannot outrun time.
You spoke of peace.
But peace does not arrive
on sanctions.
Nor on hunger.
Is this democracy—
to starve a nation
and call it order?
Venezuela burns
not from failure of leaders,
but from invisible chains
wrapped by foreign hands.
You have read this story before.
Libya.
Iraq.
Same script.
Different stage.
Same ashes.
The wise learn from history.
Fools
repeat it with pride.
You call it civilization.
But theft dressed in law
is still theft.
Power, Machiavelli warned,
rots when it feeds on weakness.
Empires fall
not by enemies—
but by excess.
These are not victories.
They are the final kicks
of a dying horse.
Nothing stolen
remains owned.
Nothing imposed
remains stable.
What you have done
to the small
returns to the great.
The wind has turned.
The record is kept.
And history,
cold and patient,
has already begun
to write
your fall.
He was a man penned,
By instinctive needs,
To whisk away,
Dirty deeds.
The necessities of others,
Trumped what was,
Making headlines,
Out of quiet acts.
Into a text,
He appeared,
From the text,
(h)e disappeared.
A lion he was,
Doubt it not,
Full of blood and fire,
Ready to grab his lot.
Sin was virtue,
Guilt was shame,
The man was hungry,
In want of a name.
The lamb came later,
Down gossip’s path,
Upon an alter,
History crossed.
The books,
With deliberate fancies,
Inverted the meaning
Of time.
Meanwhile,
Blood became wine,
As castles rose,
To hail the divine.
For God’s sake!
The man was made of steel!
Not like superman,
But still a pretty big deal.
One reason,
He became the son,
Was that god,
Needed to be born.
What was the point of
Laying down arms?
When the Romans came,
There were no other charms.
Ay, there’s the rub,
Machiavelli,
Outdated, outrun, out-stated,
By the donkey riding man.
Without faith,
Its all just a spoof,
With out doubt,
There’s no proof.
Before him,
Metaphors were magical,
After,
Merely logical.
Myth,
Is the shining example,
Of what you get,
When men dance and sing.
Religion,
Is the only way,
To get things right,
Some other day.
When the temple,
Came crashing down,
Fate was sealed,
For money ruled the town.
His worshippers protested,
Not to budge,
If he did,
Some rocks they would indulge.
Not one to say no,
Believing in his flock,
He was surprised,
How they began to mock.
When the real story began,
The fake one ended,
Men of action,
Lost their main attraction.
The men with quills,
Who with great depth,
Expressed their wills,
Still whisper in the halls.
Who’s to say,
What it means,
When all is said and done,
Nothing is as it seems.
All hail and rise,
To this story that was devised,
By one god damn man,
Of art he was comprised.
Shani.
Saturn.
In the East,
they call you
Shani.
The son
of Surya.
The keeper
of karma.
In the West,
they knew you
as Saturn.
The god
of time.
Many
fear you.
Few
understand you.
Even kings
tremble,
when your shadow
falls.
You govern
laws.
Governments.
Kingdoms.
Institutions.
Hierarchy.
Authority.
When rulers
wear black.
Or navy.
They bear
your solemn
mark.
Saturday
belongs
to you.
On this day,
I wear
black,
and bow
before you.
For you
stand exalted
in my
first house.
In Libra.
Many ask,
why wisdom
looks
so serious.
I whisper,
because
of Saturn.
My ego
was great.
You humbled
me.
Not through
hatred.
But through
discipline.
Not through
anger.
But through
truth.
You lift
the poor.
You humble
the proud.
You raise
a servant,
into
a king.
Machiavelli
understood
power.
The sages
understood
karma.
You,
Saturn,
master
both.
Time
is your
kingdom.
Justice is
your language.
Patience
your crown.
I do not
fear you.
I honor you.
For through
your trials,
I found
myself.