Televised Insanity

There are static lines running through the bone,

A private frequency we survived alone.

The hands at the throat, the father’s rage,

The shadows we carried from age to age—

Now framed in a lens, now cut to a scene, T

ransmuted to light on a glowing screen.

I take the fever, the silent tear,

The heavy weight of inherited fear,

And layout the script, direct the frame,

Giving a voice to the quiet shame.

On YouTube streams or a cinema wall,

I project the madness to make it small.

What lived in the dark as an endless night

Is broadcast now in the studio light.

No longer a victim to what was done,

I control the edit, the tape, the run.

For every secret that tried to break me,

Is turned into art for the world to see.

It’s televised now—the raw, the real,

A way to release, a way to heal. F

rom family blood to the public eye,

I stream the truth so it doesn't die.