The Journalist Poem by Puskar Sikdar

When did I last hear the voice of honest revelation?
These days, only exaggerations float in narration.
Eyes, now weary, forget the paper's lines,
While behind the digital screens, laughter shines.

No day, no night, no fixed hour to claim,
The city runs restless, chasing news in vain.
Truth lost in the maze, bound by a gilded cage,
Why do they now guard only TRP with rage?

Senseless panic stirred by tech-savvy plays,
Breaking news sprints in a flawless display.
They too cry out for the respect they deserve,
But fake news turns the masses with a swerve.

This news, that news—so many to explore,
Countless waves that leave the mind sore.
They too work hard through every trying hour,
Yet under pressure, slip into public uproar.

With life at stake and cameramen near,
Through storms and chaos, they persevere.
Bearing the weight of threats and blame,
Let honesty keep your journalistic flame.

Awaken with a pure and selfless heart,
Be the people's voice, that's where you start.
Pick up your pen for the silenced and weak,
Let unity rise, that day we all seek.