More of Self

The words they call

Shakespeare

Where is my pound of flesh

In the darker side of humanity

I expelled it across

My ledger of creation

From behind and below

From the inside out

I could use

Damocles

I guess

That has stuck with me

All my life

It

To proliferate

My art

In the shadow of the perilous sword

My want

Is to feel the Steinbeck

In me, the understanding, beauty

But the horror

Without hiding

Behind a ledger of

Anything grey or black

Was almost always more intriguing

Or made the pure and good

Even more impressive

Forth with

Jekyll

My doctor my captain

They

The bastard

I am doubt

And cannot ignore

All my

Degraded egos

And

My own

Disintegration

In spite of Victor

I am more

Of self

And dare each and every one

Of you

Out there

To question validity

And artistry

As if communing with

Those who came before

Hemingway or Joyce

Who echoed the halls

Of history

Through their fingers

And felt the pains

Of humanity

In their hearts