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.
Don't start anything."
No, damn it all.
The words begin again.
Fervor renewed in flitting fingers.
Purpose restored in printed pieces.
Stories worth telling once more.