Punk

I love the colors, the unsought profanities, 

in your face - vanities, charms and allure 

of the imperfect, the broken, fantastic,

the measures are drastic, but we all endure. 

Look at the ceiling, the window sill panic, 

your roots are organic, but stuck in the mud - of

the catatonic, the waiting, amazing 

the roar barely raising, and nipped in the bud. 

Fuck your mad letters, your hayforks and ditches, 

who are the witches, the devils you seek? 

Of thousand ideas, beliefs and objectives 

the loss of perspective is just plain and weak. 

Give me the playful, the noisy and rowdy, 

the partially cloudy, kind and awake 

to meet the challenge, the questions, the riddles,

knowing it's punk when you make some mistakes.