Faults

In lies perfection, lays thy total imperfection,

To say one, never makes a mistake, trump’s one.

Unlike hate filled politicians, I am a love poet-ician.

Hear yea, billowing legislators, clamoring in hot air claims.

That poet pricks, can easy deflate, these pompous egos.

I, as you, as we, being human beings, are inferior-superior.

We write, our roller coaster spun words, heated to cool.

Our emotions, ride gamut diverse opinions, left to right.

But do not follow, find your own way, counter to clock wise.

Poets are not meek lambs, they seer pasts - to seek futures.

To Be mistake prone, their wounds scar over and yet over again.

That by miscues, going backward, back forward, reverse timed,

They English language navigate, adrift unique styled Independence,

To send readers, off tangent, upon knowledge, bearing multi-faceted

Gems upon Poet Tree sparking universal understanding contemplations.

A perfect rose, I - as you bend, in self-doubts of self-worth tangents.

A perfect fool, to think one person, can change, the world in words.

A perfect Poet-ician, is naught mortician politicians, being always Right.

A perfect Collegiate graduate, who needs to be retaught human humility.

A perfect mess, I am - I am, as you can see, a troubadour vagabond recluse.

Yes, you can see, you can hear, can feel thyself distraught, but journeys await.

That the best way to learn, sometimes, is to screw up, on screw up downers.

Been up and down, so many times, not knowing, going or coming, yet  cooping.

That somehow scrapes heal, pride is resewn, poetic fabric - mend re-mended.

With being tattered, in-out, torn asunder, over and over again, we write poetry.

Why do we do it? When we face, human faulted, perfect minded, flawed critics?

They are so perfect, they crack the mirror; while this poet, just wrinkles age spots.

Why in some verse, the translator, needs a translator; still no one can say, what was said.

Agreed, there should not be singularity in poetry for it is multi-conjoined conjectures,

But one, should not need Collegiate dictionary to decipher every passage, minute meaning.

But alas, who am I, but a pauper poet, who makes cents in life, writing on napkins.

Wrinkled I am, I am a hundred-dollar bill image, worn outside-in, being time terminated.

You’re Fired, laid off, downsized, discharged, let go - on and on being broken hearted.

Yet what is this “De-Termination” that has this walking Constitution Poetic Independence.

This Poetic License that says, “Yes, I am, all screwed up-down, left and right flawed American.

My American Dream, tis a Camelot past due, a Draft threat - enlistment, Kent State, 7-11 towers.

God, I have lived beyond JFK, RFK, MLK heroes, being assassinated, adrift “I have a Dream” poetry.

Hear yea the cry, “We need troops here, there, every where,” from stay at home Draft Dodgers.

See yea die maimed, “We need a SWAT team, NOW, at our school, we have live fire, we are losing lives.”

Feel yea, thy heart break, with dye, wherein words, reign down, furrowed lines, dig thee open

The RIP core of American poets - Faults