Newspaper headlines. 

This is Truth speaking,
Make-up free,
Dressed down,
Embellishments shed,
This is plain Truth speaking.
I do not have much time,
So hear me and hear me well,
This is my story.

I miss the old times.
I miss diffusing onto clean papers,
Page one to twenty one,
Stark naked.
Freshly baptized, white garbs, solemn smiles,
Apologetically locking eyes with the hurt I cause,
I sit sympathetic yet smug in the awareness of my authenticity.
Been stirring emotions since the beginning of times,
But there’s the pun,
Since the beginning of Times,
I have been cast out like a capital sinner .
I admit, I held more crimes in those old palms of mine than the Devil himself,
But didn’t I confess it all?

Didn’t I confess it all,
Until you bid me to hold back my tongue ;
Until you tattooed lies onto my lips;
Until you fed my ears with gnarled fibs;
Until I forgot my language, honest words slipping slowly off my tongue and memory;
Until you were sick of the genteel punishments,
And ripped my tongue right off with your harsh lawless hands,
Donated my tattooed lips to Free Speech,
Called me ugly and uninteresting,
Told me people wanted entertainment,
Not bluntness.
Your fingers clawing at my eyes,
Digging deeper into the void of my empty soul.
Through the tears and the pain,
I saw dirt under your fingernails.
Deceits sprouting from its utter blackness,
My eyes gave in and now my world is a constant blur.
I do not see clearly,
I see with superfluous details.   

Damage done,
You went back,
To your paper factories,
Demanding them to make a new face for Truths of India,
And they, creative bunch, made hundreds.
Look at me now,
My metamorphosis done,
Sporting a new face every day, every minute,
Putting my ancestry to shame,
Painting minds of readers with the dull gray of indecision,
Slyly smiling as I shape their minds and decisions,
Showing them my palms, decked up to seem flawless
Hiding the countless scars that battle my skin,
I show them still, the spotless hands ,
Persuading them to let me rape their minds with my biased view of the world.
I sit on their conscience and hatch eggs of falsehood that will soon break into wretched opinions and stereotypes.

I was once Truth but now I am the Media.
I am newspaper headlines birthed by calloused mouths,
Disfigured by broken teeth, spit out with an unnatural greed.
I am the articles that follow,
Camouflaged and photoshopped,
Drained of the original ink, stuffed with red corrections.
Sidelined by advertisements.
I misinform, I manipulate.
I have become a masquerade ball, to which
I cordially invite you all.
There is naught we can do,
For this world is wrong.

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