How To Go About It Poem by Julia Luber

I want to explain something to you, and I am not sure how to go about it.

I doubt it will fit cleverly into any rhyme scheme, like a rubric cube type dream.
With everything making a perfect sense ultimately. With an absolute goal, victorious revelry.
I don't think there's a conclusion to anything I have to say or tell.
But perhaps that what it is can be kind of explained as HELL:
trying to explain something no one is going to easily believe nor really care…..
though whole professions are construed about it as if I need a high profile dare:

I already tested the waters. And these folks do not care at all.
About the murder, about the profiling, about the one shot Sherlock call….
They do not give a shit. And because I am so alone it it, I have taken a severe hit.

And if I told them anymore, they would only care less. Their tongues work as if waiting
only for a next caress with truly no moral intensity nor conscience. Why is that painful?
I thought being against murders of innocents was generally first impulse. That it would
be of utmost concern to get such killer in prison. But they seem to only care that
Orange Is The New Black has risen: only bowing down to the television fiction.

Anything about real life is just too much trouble for conscious registering of depiction.