Art For Artee Poem by Charles Monroe

My Repentance to the friendless,
There is blood in all our hands.
For each time we've penned a sentence
And have bended in our stance.
No one knows of birds in cages
or the melodies they chant
until selves have sang in cages
Risen through the stillest ages.
No such worship, mind thou word-ship
with the elegance of birdshi7.
Too a fellow poet, Maya,
Poet Credit is indebted;
To her politics and so forth,
I've my own to keep me threaded.
Got my own evil regime
defecating on mine dream;
stuff that makes me loose the theme
Of an idle worshiping.
Let us not dwell hard on problems
When we're lagging on solution;
but instead let's find solutions
by not dwelling hard on problems.
For all people own statistics
And own backgrounds full of misprints
Let them know us by our fist-prints
Not our prince-ships nor our pinched lips
Nor our districted infringements.
Let us walk, instead of typing
And reflect it off the writing
For not many do the right thing
But they will stone you to death.
Human kind is sad at times
And sadly disappoints;
But hope shall not go underwritten
For it will win us, even smitten.
Why would not thy want to be
Control ling thine destiny...
These are self-interrogations
Conduct self-investigations.
Idle idol adorations;
Gain our patience
Lose frustrations
and remind the grand occasions
Among the living,
When I am dead.
P.X