Sudden, rapid little flashes of light
Like gunfire, in looks and in deadliness
From a black plastic box, it’s all in sight
And all your efforts are made meaningless
The new printed page smells strongly of ink
Of your shame, of your guilt that it implies
Neither truth nor lies but right on the brink
But the faith in you, it withers and dies
It’s only words, only words on the page
But it destroys like the sharpest of blades
Now you have naught but an inkling of rage
Because you’re sick of their lengthy tirades
What is it that’s really bothering you?
The fact that a little just might be true?