I could write a book
of things I've seen
instant gratification
is what I need
so I write a poem
for you to read
short and simple
and quicker it seems
these times of turmoil
and tainted views
only certain channels
report real news
the rest paint words
the truth may cause
a dark, deep bruise
our intellect
may get confused
I'll take true statements
time after time
sharing the word
of all new crimes
the muck and the mire
the slinging of grime
it's still growing
it's not even half-time
turning it off
when it's too much
cynicism weaves
its painful touch
leaves us limping
without a crutch
come on world
enough is enough
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