A Writer's Inadequacies

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?

My concern?




In these issues, do my pen matter?

Or is the tragedy the sword,

That puts my pen to shame?

This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world


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