The News?
Staring at the words,
clinical, detached, silent.
Headlines larger than life,
blankly screaming all-too-real horrors.
But what do you care?
Pain printed in black and white,
Handlebars for grief.
Numbing wounds as they rot and fester,
simplifying hurts that are anything but simple.
But what does it matter to you?
Life, love, agony,
Broken down into sentences,
for anyone to examine.
You can read about it for a dollar,
but no money will buy you understanding.
And as you wipe the ink
from your unscarred hands,
wonder what it’s like to be a horror story.
To be today’s news
and tomorrow’s kindling.
Poem number two was written on a bus to Melbourne.
I don't like reading newspapers.
Can you tell?
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