you needn't be famous

to put down your story

the written word only

enhances your glory

 

my memoirs are done

inspiration has run dry

only a pile of nibs is left

an ink blot mars my tie

 

its quite a work of art

though I say so myself

my sober chapters will

enhance many a shelf

 

its been a strange life

u-turns and blind alleys

an excess of aspiration

less peaks than valleys

 

good intentions aplenty

struggling to the light

watched others mostly

a curious, heroic fight

 

all but my gravest lapse

the life I holed and sank.

are my pages too open,

should more be blank?

 

waste basket heaving

many stories scrapped

I struggled to imagine

that bough I snapped

 

its in black and white

yet how can I let it go?

police would maul me

critics smirk and crow

 

like the victim, my sins

too must gather dust,

so, a tomb will archive

this monument to lust