Freedom Of The Press - Poem by Steve Nayar
Words scratch their taloned certainty through human pulp
Vanity made sharp, honed, maliciously manicured.
These are the weapons of mass destruction
Here lies the cause of every scar…
Spark the thought,
Ignited hands encircle literary pyre,
Quills ironically record the deed,
Minds flashing, eyes enlightening
Tongues wagging, teeth chewing
The last glowing embers of verbal feast,
As we play victim, and they play beast.
Freedom of the press,
To distort, delet and generalise,
And thus, us oppress.
Comments about Freedom Of The Press by Steve Nayar
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Steve Nayar's Other Poems
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye