Fraud

I scribble these thoughts,
Or fevered dreams,
Or restless nightmares,
For no eyes but mine,
And God’s,
If he blithely looks this way.
These are not sanctioned thoughts
Nor kosher ideas,
There is nothing here
For the willfully banal
But beauty and profanity.
I write because I must;
I cannot not.
I cannot contain myself fully
As an unlit Roman candle on a summer night
Waiting to burn, just to die.
I take handfuls of hand-me-down words
And cast them into unceremonious pieces;
Words better left to the
Dwindling smiths and craftsmen
Of this fading age.
But I steal away with them,
Scrawling out this mess
As a child with a box of
Broken crayons and an unmarred wall.
I write
And I write
And I write
To keep my head above the floodwaters
Of all these treacherous thoughts.