To be a Journalist

You’ve got to bleed life
and be able to write it
with a grip in your hand
that knows no limit,
clenching 'til the roots
are uprooted, the old
oak tree in your childhood
that stood out the window
had been stolen away,
had been taken to its grave.
Remember that memory
and turn it into a book
with the corpse
of your childhood friend.
Push your curious eyes and
swallow cold breaths into
the cavern of unremitting
nausea and stress and anxiety.
You have to interview somebody.
All the time,
you have to interview somebody.
Remember your childhood,
good, important, because
we’ll ask where you came
and where you’re going.
The oak tree has beaten you
over and over.
One day you’ll expire.
Death makes things valuable.
At least we’ll remember you
by what you have written...
oh, you’re a tabloid journalist
and only wrote about the Kardashians.
Well, whose fault is that now?


Jennings Journalist, Parker, Poem, Poetry,

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Cory Garcia
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