You live life on the road
You eat words for breakfast
Just to get by the deadline.
Never minding the ungodly hours
Nor the sore feet from walking for miles
Yet you get to have a love-hate relationship with power
You’re forever crossing a bridge to danger.
And then unlearning the beliefs you once had
And learning to cuss when bullshits stare at you with malice.
Oh, but the story you look for can only be beautiful
When the protagonist is bad and ugly with money
You always crumple the paper until its insanely perfect
After staring so long at the blank walls of your room
Only to realize with dismay how your work is sliced in half
Oh, but then you are able to see unspoken truths
Never heard, never written, and long forgotten.
How complex can your role be?
You are an observant in an unfolding history
Whose side on shall you be?
Ah, but you’re the gatekeeper of society
It’s a calling, it truly is
For the strong-willed can only persist
From finding the gold in the tunnel.
Knowledgeable about everything yet a master of none
What the hell am I talking about?
Ladies and gentlemen, it’s being a journalist, that’s what.