Letters

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.