Poem No. 1: Death of a Journalist
It is the middle of the night, I cannot sleep, and if my brain could make noises, I'm fairly certain it would sound similar to my whirring laptop computer when too many applications are open.
I cannot sleep and I am thinking of all the words in my head – all the words I've written and haven't ever shared with anyone. Maybe my head would have a little more space inside if I sent these words off into the void.
My most productive thinking usually begins somewhere after 9 p.m., and tonight I had a thought, closer to 1 a.m. of sharing my poetry on the blog – a series of sorts. A project. An incentive to write things that don't involve reporting on what's happening at school.
Poetry, however, is much more to me than a side project but a cathartic exercise that keeps me from going crazy. I took a class last semester on poetry and my professor taught me a great deal, so I hope as I share some of the pieces I've written, that even if they aren't great, they at least won't be awful.
I wrote Piece No. 1 of the series, titled Death of a Journalist, during the height of the presidential election and fake news was only beginning to be a problem.
I hope you enjoy.
Death of a Journalist
Shoot the fact checker, cries the mob.
The click bait headlines are more entertaining anyways.
The old evangelicals mourn the death of the absolute
but what is truth anymore
if the New York Times is only good
for kindling torches in protest of rigged democracy?
And isn’t it all laced with bias,
doomed from the opening lines of the front-page story?
The First Amendment sulks in a corner
and waits to be welcomed back to the party.
Every time you share a counterfeit URL,
a journalist sheds a tear.
Or yells a curse word.
Or slams their mug of cold coffee
on mock-ups of tomorrow’s print.
The news is dying and so are we.
Here's to writing more often,