Poem
I don't celebrate victories.
Someone might hear,
and Big Brother
has an open mic.
Everyone wants
to be the tattler,
empathy retooled
to find an easy target.
They point out
imagined blemishes
on your face with
fry-greased fingers.
You can't win
for acquiescing,
can't mind business
for land mines.
Eye for an eye
is compromise.
Cries for help
are closure.
And yes I had
a winning moment
Or at least one
where I was noticed,
My name suffers
suffixes such as
;oscopy, ;ectomy,
'geddon and 'cide.
Were you
really asking
or just reporting
from the front?
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