Oppressed Press

Hey, there, how are you?

Fine? That’s good.

Me? I’m not doing so well,

It might be what they fed me yesterday, the green papery stuff,

To keep me quiet,

Or maybe it’s just this gag around my face,

Across my neck,

Over my entire facade and everything within,

To keep me from crying out.

I might need you to help me,

before they come,

You want to know my story, how I got here?

They stifled me while I was working,

Held me down as I protested,

And took me to this car,

Nicely personalized,

With ‘Criminal defamation’ painted around its front,

And ‘Political munition’ around its back,

The rest from that day I do not remember,

But I remember waking up to smoke,

They say news travels like wildfire,

But I haven’t been able to see a flame,

For a long time now,

I had friends before I got here,

But I’ve been hearing tales,

The only tales I’ve been able to relay;

I used to love them,

I can’t remember their names,

They always had notepads in their hands,

And mikes on their collars,

But as I’ve been keeping count,

They’ve been going away,

Four every week,

Seventy- one every year,

Leaving ashes in their wake,

The rag feels a bit tighter, but I’ve figured out where the smoke comes from,

It’s the dust from crumbling bricks,

The one that formed my armour,

The ones they’re trying to break,

To stop me from telling you,

All the tales of foray,

Everything you need to know, but don’t,

Everything they’ve been keeping to themselves but shouldn’t,

The wilful tales of treachery,

The rag feels tighter still, it’s smothering me,

Keeping me from speaking, from expressing,

It’s cutting off my breath,

My head feels light now, unlike the darkness of my plight,

It’s not just me they’re binding, it’s the voices of hundreds,

The ones that wanted you to know,

What happens behind all closed doors,

And walled up places,

I fear I might not last too long,

I wish I could say I knew this was coming,

But I never believed this could be human folly,

But, with every breath that I can manage to take–

Tight, tight, tighter still,

I can feel it tightening,

Boom, rings the knell,

But with every ring,

I now remember their names–





I don’t know why I know these only now,

After all these days,

Perhaps it’s their manner of death,

Or perhaps it’s because someone ought to remind you,

That someone else tried.

Did I tell you my name, I wonder, (?)

Before I go,

I must repeat it all the same,

So you know,

that I once had the power to fuel the fire of what news was meant to be,

They’re used to calling me ‘journalism’,

But you can call me Mr.J.


One thought on “Oppressed Press

  1. furtdso linopv says:

    Good day! This post could not be written any better! Reading through this post reminds me of my old room mate! He always kept chatting about this. I will forward this article to him. Fairly certain he will have a good read. Thanks for sharing!


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