Printed dots, that’s all they are,
blotted in a row.
Tomorrow’s trash (I know the line),
but still, they crack my soul.
I started as a reader. I ended up malign.
Who speaks for me, in all this mess -
Who’s ever on my side?
Eyes on black, it’s all you see,
in this vein democracy.
Pixels on a screen: flat identity.
But every story that you spin,
every bonus which you cheque,
aren’t just words; it’s lives you kill,
Societies you wreck.
I wish you knew I cried like you,
when I saw those orange suits -
Men bowed in line, praying not to die.
Prick my fabric and I’ll bleed;
beneath it, you’ll find skin.
Blame my mind, but know:
it’s yours which tortured mine.
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