Truth in Journalism


See me in print

Yeah, that is me

Or so I think

Can I really be read

Like an old magazine

I am the dream

Add to it what you may

Maybe one day

You will be able to then say

I felt like I was there

Right there with him

Singing that upbeat battle hymn

Forget how grim

Or how the words made him look so damn gloriously slim

Along the absence of image

Can a mirror

Ever offer up a game of scrimmage

Played in Black and in White

Whether or not you score

Behind the door

There is the light

How much duller

Threatens the typed joys of color

What they don’t know

Let them make up

Dyslexia can be like snow

When an author drinks from a dirty cup

What really fades

Doesn’t require shades

Throw yourself on the blade

Save the anecdote that you made

 

 

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