I wear this poet’s coarse cloak 
as a humble servant of truth. 
Poetry cannot manifest in deceit,
and those who wield wealth and weapons
know the threat of it,
know that  their weapons and lies
hold no contest
to a poem.

They can fire journalists,
buy out newspapers,
bankrupt publishers,
burn manuscripts,
silence radio stations,
cancel TV programming,
and clog the internet with bullshit.

But they can never erase
the sticky stuff of cadence and rhyme,
repeated by humankind since vowels and consonants
first combined
as stories passed from
fires to phones.
No amount of damage control
will scrub the poet’s words,
once heard.

Before chiseled stone,
printing press,

truth prevailed
in the words of a poem.

And there you have it,
why I am a poet.