Flowings of Your Everlasting Taffyman

The poem I wrote on Gabs streetside curb

self made majesty
mystirical
mystery
clearly accommodates
compliments
consolidates
the already fortunate
fictionally fantastic
others left in seeming solitude
desolate drastic

factually we got it wrong
errors in our ways
we psychosomatically
treat the rich like
they got it made
while they barricade up
their lawns,
lock and key,
fortify
while those without
live truly free
society
denies

purpose of a safety net
hold us back or keep us up?
Hit the ground
hit it hard
roll over shake it off
find it comforting
there is that base
the free fall breeds anxiety
on the ground a man is free
adorn and bow
his majesty