The Journalist’s Playground


Wallowing in the information abyss
Children playing in alphabet soup
A splattering of letters mixes with
Never changing streams of thought
Slipping away before they congeal
Leaving nothing of value
In their wake

Half truths, no truths, twisted words
Purveyors grasping for pieces
Hoping a length of tape
Can hold these fragments as one
Long enough to garner
Admiration and respect
And then they are gone

Segments reappear with
Signs of wear as each attempted use
Peels the shine of potential
Brilliance from each letter and word
The newness gone
Admiration and respect wane
And players pray for a new batch

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They Call This Life


Memories
cloud clear thought
better days remembered as
today weighs heavily on our backs

Simplicity gone
common sense erased
as nothing new makes sense
we lie at the bottom
of the hill of muck
unable to make progress
the few determined pulled back
for no one wants to wallow
in the pigsty alone

The new philosophy…
let the few keep the many down
that they have all
and the rest have nothing
to squabble over.