We're all Imperfectly Human

We're all a bunch of dreamers

Some of us advid drinkers

Novelists write collections of lies

I write the truth before it dies

The sweet prose that I can make drip sense

Or fall into a senseless abyss

Poetry is full of a few choice words

One pen stroke can cut the heart into thirds

The simplest truth is we all feel

Some hearts built of a cast iron steel

Other's brimming with a cavity enriching bliss

That cannot be tainted by life's foul, oppressive kiss

Poetry cracks all perfected Trojan masks

Once a poet picks up his half emptied flask

Bukowski had a lot of pent up grit

Shakespeare was a sexually driven Brit

Poe's edgier than any teen you will ever know

Dickenson was and still is poetry's own Van Gogh

In poetry every facade is stripped away

And we are all human at the end of the day

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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