I woke up in my white house, in my white room, in my white skin.
And with minimal surprise, I learned about another tragedy.
Not understanding the gravity of the situation, I now have something to write about.
You see, tragedy rings in a writers ears like the dinner bell for a dog.
Hell! What are we trying to sell?
I understand spreading awareness is all we can do sometimes.
But I’m sick of hearing poems from my own point of view.
Promising they did stuff too!
I wrote some words on a page,
But what did that do
Other than tell you what you already know.
It just goes to show how helpless and ignorant we can be.
I’d like to think my words are helpful,
But I feel that if I don’t write about the mass suffering around the world
That makes me selfish.
Our words are becoming identical.
We don’t know how to cope
And we put ourselves on a tightrope.
Competing with one another we would rather
Spend time finding the best reaction instead of taking action.
Yet again, what have I done?