Broadcasting Shadows

They sell us echoes and call it news, broadcasting Shadows while the truth sits bruised in the backroom of forgotten. Every screen, a circus of scandals, where silence gets muted and lies come with soundtracks. We scroll through blood and broken bones like it's sport, watching tragedy like returns, waiting for the next hashtag to bleed meaning. No one sells peace- not when war clicks better. No one pushes growth- not when gossip grows faster. No one uplifts- not when tearing down makes better headlines. Cameras zoom in on cleavages, crime, and chaos, but pan out when children build libraries in war-torn villages. Truth wears no make-up She doesn't trend. She sits still while the world chases dopamine dressed in drama. And us- we keep sipping the poison, call it culture, call it freedom, while they frame our minds with florescent lies and call it prime time. But I won't kneel to flashing lights or the gospel of greed. I write in the language of awakening, whispering wisdom that rises above the noise. Because someday, someone will need more than headlines- they'll need truth that doesn't stutter.