my ultimatum between my inner self and the world: either i write about you in all your brutal ugliness and beauty, or i do not write at all.

Sometimes I think I was born with a TV ticker tape.

In the back of my head, like the news of

The world’s evil is constantly seeping into my subconscious.

I am so aware of the pain of the earth that

Most days I want to claw out of my own skin.

I go for two hours of normality, but then the gravity of reality

Hits, like all of the agony of humanity is descending to me

In one long scream. I drag my fingers through my hair,

Shouting back, I know, I know, I know you’re hurting –

But what can I do?

And the answer always comes to me

Like a host of angels to a desperate exile:


So I write about the bad and I write it hard, like

I’m the one chosen to exorcise the devils of the world because

No one else even knows the planet’s begging for a priest.

I finish each poem and lay it down as sacrifice, and

For a moment the screaming stops. But then

Another war begins or a famine strikes or dozens of

Kids gets murdered at an elementary school, and

I feel the sick buzz in the back of my skull. In a panic

I run for more paper and ink, with the dread knowledge that

The earth has just birthed another demon,

And people are weeping for me to make it known.

The End

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