The office of my life is strewn paper
Tragic, notes in hieroglyphics from another life
Untranslatable by me tonight
I have no energy for trawling through my mind
I am useless.
To recover something as nebulous
As the quest for truth in a dying era
Who do I think I am to bring clarity to masses
With my squiggles. Doodles to convey
The fact that I’m afraid. An urge to change.
A cry to rearrange.
I am so lost without a newsdesk and a printing press
Rumbling beneath my feet. No subeditor to see
My mistakes. That misspelled name. The incorrect date.
I feel so many things are wrong. To put them into order
Structure. Lessons from my trainings past
Remembering my craft.
And the news rumbles on. A shooting here, a suicide
It is not my fault if people die, of course. But the silence afterwards
The lack of public record, publically accessible.
The information remaining hidden. The rise of decency and lies
I cannot let these stories lie. Must find out why.
And publish where? How? Without an editor to tell me what to do
Without a ready made readership of tens of thousands
You are not enough. I need to move cities with my empathy
Go to the places. Help the people see
How wrong this all this. That we can change it.
To have that opportunity, then lose it.
I am a fool for ever believing I could do this.
On my own.
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