The Journalist

I sit here, holding my pen, thinking,

What is it’s purpose?

What is this tool for?

Then I write, pen racing over paper,

Marking it with my angry words.

The words are people,

Linked in unending chains of cruel hard words,

Swept aside effortlessly by my flashing weapon,

My sword for slaying those in my path,

I looked down at the paper,

The battlefield I had made it,

And I wondered what I was doing,

Looking at the names of those I slaughtered,

My sword running blue with their blood.