News is one of humanity's most efficient inventions. Its purpose is utility. It exists to communicate what happened, where, when and to whom as quickly as possible. Every word is chosen to maximize information while minimizing the time required to absorb it. Headlines are engineered for immediacy, they compete for attention in an endless stream, often relying on urgency, conflict or surprise in order to rise above the noise. In this process, language becomes purely functional. Nuance is compressed, emotion is restrained or, sometimes, strategically amplified, and complexity is distilled into a few carefully selected words. The headline is not meant to be contemplated. It is meant to be understood, acted upon, and left behind. But an headline is only the tip of a much bigger story. Behind there are people, years of work, moments of loss, hope, fear, curiosity and joy. A scientific discovery hides years of questions and hard work. An economic report reflects millions of lives. Every headline leaves countless human stories behind in the pursuit of simplicity. Poetry, on the other side, serves a radically different purpose. It does not seek efficiency, but resonance. It values suggestion over explanation, rhythm over speed, feeling over certainty. News compresses reality into information, poetry compresses it into meaning. One tells us what happened, the other helps us inhabit what it means to be human in the presence of what happened. Breaking Poems explores the distance between knowing what happened and feeling what it means, transforming real news headlines into short poems. Running on a Raspberry Pi, the project continuously fetches real-time headlines from around the world and uses large language models to reimagine them as free verse, sonnets, limericks, and ballads. The poems are then automatically printed on a POS receipt, as if they were the final output of a transaction. A receipt is perhaps the ultimate symbol of consumption, something produced to serve an immediate purpose, glanced at for a moment, then discarded. Printed on thermal paper, the poems are as fragile as the headlines they originate from. Exposure to light slowly erases the text until nothing remains. Like the news itself, they exist briefly, pass through our hands, and quietly disappear, leaving only the memory of having been read. Hopefully, by becoming poems, these headlines can leave a deeper trace than they ever could as news. Not because they change the facts, but because they find a quieter, more profound way to reach our subconscious, where they can continue to resonate long after both the headline and the paper have disappeared.