Michael Jackson
got a monkey for a pet,
then he made a song
about Ben the rat.
Ben the two of us
or Bubbles all three of us.
Maybe monkey's act better,
humanoids fuss,
then they cuss,
some you can't trust,
live and deal you must,
can't afford to end up rust,
ashes to ashes
dust to dust.

Michael's father was an abuser,
mother refused
to be an accuser,
yet Michael isn't a loser.
My family wasn't any better,
yes it does matter.
But what don't kill,
might be a better thrill,
if you got a strong will,
as we slip and slide
up and down the hill.

Now here I am in this den,
poetic family of women and men.
Humanoids to be exact,
dysfunctional family to fact.
Within our family of poetics,
we have all type fanatics,
maybe a few dope attics.

We got poets loving,
some pushing and shoving.
We have haters,
some devil relaters.
You name it,
get a frame and frame it.
One great big family thriving,
some bull jiving.
Brothers and sisters of verse,
I'm part of this poetic family,
for better or worse,
because I also have the curse.

OnepoetGem