Stories

Typing was easy --

Writing was hard.

What then was the point of the words

If there lay no meaning behind them?

If no cause stood before them?

If no purpose guided them?

 

And then a demagogue,

Cloaked in ostentatious hatred,

Stepped upon the stage.

And my spotlight slowly trained upon him.

And for a moment,

All I could do was watch.

 

As toxins spewed from his lips

And the words flitted across my pages,

Skimming the surface

But refusing to print.

"Avoid controversy.

Don't start anything."

 

Fuck that.

No, damn it all.

No.

 

The words begin again.

Furiously.

Confidently.

Fervor renewed in flitting fingers.

Purpose restored in printed pieces.

Stories worth telling once more.

This poem is about: 
Me
My country

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