A car loses control and hits a baby.
Reporters swirl around the dying innocence,
Like vultures around potential demise.
I grab my pen and write,
I grab my laptop and type,
I grab my phone and tweet
All I do is write.
Am I a human being,
Who sees, hears, smells and lives through tragedy as all,
Or am I a robot whose first instinct,
Upon witnessing all that shouldn't be,
Is to reduce it to its prescribed form?
Should I do more?
Does my pen adequatly reflect my care?
In these issues, do my pen matter?
Or is the tragedy the sword,
That puts my pen to shame?