You can call my poetry harsh prosaic, impolite aphorism: A poem 

You can accuse my poetry as that with no placid rhythm 

I wouldn’t debate if you consider it harsh prosaic, impolite aphorism 

You can still have a little of my wisdom, even if you call it inappropriate 

I am just going to engrave my convictions, at any indifferent rate 

I can prescribe no lessons between the lines, no tattling fine print 

Even the ghostliness of my calligraphy doesn’t intend any beauty 

I am demonstrative of hate in my humility; it is of such implicit utility 

I swear historic abuse is the offense that demolishes all probability of armistice 

I am certain that those who decamped with my ambrosia must be punished for theft 

I will expound my virtue even if you all damn it as a villainy responding to adversarial villainy 

I will never disrobe my principles to make me nakedly compatible with treachery 

Should I be even alone in my stand; you all considering my geometry an asymmetry 

I am God, but yet a call boy for all of you actors to enter the stage of my theatre 

till this substance is substantiated with colloquiality, and the disowning of the lying liability