An older poem written on Mother's Day when crowds gathered at a train wreck as an outing — I was furious.....
Human nature is what Philosopher’s call
The endless inhuman search for thrills
The point to this pastime is as infinitely small
As a trophy hunter tracking his kill.
I have in my soul no lust for this feeling
No desire or need to be shown tragedy
Do people not realise the thrill they are stealing
Is merely one of life’s bitter parodies.
And if to these people I voice my outrage
In a callous tone they call me immature
Failing to see the vast risk they wage
By reacting naively to their “human nature”.
And as they flock to the sights of disasters
To satisfy their morbid curiosity
I wonder if they know what in life really matters
And my soul is filled with animosity.
What will it take to satisfy this brutal thirst
Is there not enough pain in the world today
That we can think of the agony of others first
By trading our curiosity for quiet dismay.
If unbeknownst to you in a disaster I lay dead
Would you join the crowd quenching their need
Would your heart beat with excitement or dread
As they uncaringly watched me bleed…..