Sonnet- No Man Is Perfect

Which man, a perfect Being, calls himself?
When imperfect, the world seems naturally;
And more so when he is after more pelf;
And labels others, 'imperfect' freely.

All men are deficient in many ways,
Yet, point their fingers to the ones around;
They try to mask their own unsteady base;
Superior ones, they even try to hound.

But talents are God-given gifts to men;
In quantities, differing 'midst earthlings;
To -develop them, depends on our own ken;
None prevents you from wearing many rings.

Why blame others when you are blameworthy?
Why jealous be, when you are more ‘filthy’?

poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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