The Screed

This is all there is now.

I guess I played too long,

The Good Man and The Fool.

Dawn is rising in the East

and the light of the Sun

is setting fire

to all my could-have-beens,

my never-weres

and my isms.


I wanted to be great;

and I tried,

and I failed,

and I tried again.

How I didn’t go out

in some kind

of beautiful deal spiral;

I’ll never know,

but the things

that stayed with me


was the words,

the pen,

the paper,

the blood

and The Screed.


Pouring out of me,

and endless fountain of shit.

High mind

brought low,

smashed down,

tapped a sewer pipe

and somewhere,

deep under the skin,

a severed ventricle

pumps maddening volumes;



I can’t shut it off.

It’s never ending.

I pick up the pen

and it’s like opening a tap.

A gate valve,

holding back

a tidal wave

of endless horrors.


Every morning,

I pour up a glass of it,

I shower in it;

I cleanse my mind,

my eyes,

and fuel my soul with it.

The letters form words,

the ones you’re reading now.


This is all I have

that makes me me.

My Sistine Chapel,

my Mona Lisa,

my intricate deception.

Undone by the prying eye.

Don’t worry about me;

I’ll keep going.

Every day,

when I wake up,

The Screed is waiting for me.

Daring me,

to pick up the pen again.


HG – 2018

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