Churnalism

 

Choked by fears, I camouflage my tears as downtrod, I once more plod to an open cell, my own personal hell.

Chained, restrained against my will, I sit and stare as like a bitter pill, I’m forced to swallow my pride, jump on board a reckless ride through unmarked terrain, no matter the marks I may sustain.

My confidence cripples me, as the ripples of careless actions sting, while gossips conspire silently in their all-consuming ring.

My plaster cast heart breaks, shudders and flakes as gaping, I’m left to pick up the pieces, smother my mind in faeces, as my talent is stomped on, my nouse and skills forgotten.

Treated like a typing swine, I think back to a time when my stock was high, when I didn’t go home to cry, each night, worn out from my internal and external fight.

I see life pass me by on looping tracks, as I sit and wait for my last breath as a hapless hack; a career I sought, the time I bought, chasing leads, now following aimlessly social feeds.

Did my intrinsic value decrease when barons began to fleece budding writers? Has my career, like a fire starter, burst to flames, blown out, extinguished in the rain?

Should I lame, be shot, or left to languish, rot in my humble home, play reporter instead with my toddler daughter? Is it just a pipe dream, just one second of my life stream?

Is my aim to aimlessly exist, to desist those passions that make me feel alive, so I alone can strive to pay my bills, to fill their tills with a pound of flesh;

Freshly cut, by an inexperienced butcher of words, by computer nerds, who steer the tiller and direct our endless supply of page filler. Quality is scrapped for zelebrities paid to be papped, for a scrap of cash, baring their boobs and bum at a pointless bash.

Say bye to creativity, bye to craft, as I neck each night a pint and a half, of bottled sorrow, dreading the morrow where it all begins again, where once more I denounce my pen.

It’s only words but they’re all I have, to fill my soul, fill my empty bowl, and now they’re gone, drowned in a pyramid con by a team of dreaded editors; paid to edit the numbers, work with half the force, rip, mimic, plagiarise each source.

No news is new, each plucked obscurely from the time vaults of the Web, where foolery is celebrated and art is at an ebb.
Success is measured solely by hits, helped along by the supply of endless tits.

Man made machines, we work in rows in lines of teams where our childhood dreams dissipate as we churn out yet another tiresome click bait.

How did it become that our profession fell to the floor where we leave our readers wanting more, as we’ve neglected to answer who, what, when, where and how this took place, the integral five forgotten in the pace.

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