Poems in December 5.

I've said before that writing doesn't change much - it doesn't stop catastrophe from occurring; not natural disasters, war or crime. But there is still a sadness that fills your heart when you wake up in the morning to read headlines of a shooting in California that has killed 14 people and wounded 17. What is so frightening is that nowhere is safe; no country or corner of this earth is secure; not mountain sides nor cities, not stadiums nor market places will shield you from flying bullets and falling bombs. What is so sad is the mounting number of victims of these disasters; the ones that have died, their grieving loved ones and the people (most especially Muslims who are peace-loving but will be made scape goats because of the works of heartless terrorists) who will suffer as a result of mayhem "people like them" perpetrate.

This is Until It Isn't by Remi Kanazi.

5.
death becomes exciting
tolls, pictures, videos
tweeting carnage
instagramming collapse
hearts racing to break

24-hour entertainment
every glimpse, splinter
and particle of pain
jammed into torsos
and cheekbones

loved ones
want to sit
for a minute
and cry quietly

no words, no poetry
before Internet and
dialed-up emotions
before black and
white ideologies

before a person
          I called friend
          defended massacres
before the victims
          were laid to rest
before chemical weapons
          ravaged insides
before refugee
          meant grandmother

suffering 2.0
keyboard clicks
like bombs so effortlessly
                           dropping

all damage collateral
never personal
voyeurs hop on and off
like carnival rides

death becomes
           exciting
until it isn't
until boredom sets in
and desensitization begins
until the next ride emerges
           somewhere else
           more captivating

--
I culled this poem from an article by Truthout!