Times change; but passion goes on;
trashing my pen and my quill;
my typewriter has long since gone;
and my computer desires my will.
Spellcheck is how the demons began;
as though, spelling’s their call;
I wish to finish my thoughts, if I can;
but the computer thinks for us all.
How can everything reported be news;
when all voices say it the same?
When never allowing dissenting views;
distortion becomes its name,
I, as a writer, become quite confused;
why be threatened, about what others say?
If it weren’t serious, I’d be bemused;
why must truth, be thought in their way?
I like to dance to a different drummer;
but now, complicity has come;
I sought out diversity last summer;
but now, all must play as one.
Ideas, themselves, no more matter;
it’s how they’re defined and spun;
you can be as mad as a hatter;
and the next election, you’ve won.
I’m feeling blocked; with nothing to say;
I’m suddenly struck with a premonition;
with all commanded to think one way;
words may become crimes; by definition.