Blame It on the ADD

I’ve written novels – dozens of them –

Full of beautiful, flawed, rich characters struggling with life.

They all build beautifully to a denouement and then ebb,

Leaving possibility and potential, and sometimes death, in their wake. 

I am Fitzgerald and Foer, Roth and Hemingway.

I’ve written songs.  Songs so powerful and deep that they linger in the air long after the final note.

Guitar in hand, I play the chords and sing from the recesses of my soul.

I play in packed stadiums with 20,000 people singing my lyrics back to me,

And I drink in the adulation of my fans, humbled.

I am Pearl Jam at Alpine Valley and Florence at The Hollywood Bowl.

And poems, hundreds of them - each line a story unto itself.

The cadence and meter and imagery dance off the page

In a maelstrom of beauty.

My metaphors create life, and my punctuation can destroy it.

I am cummings and Whitman, Eliot and Sexton.

My movies stun audiences and win awards,

Because they show the human condition in both its depraved and glorious moments.

When I climb the stairs to the stage and receive my awards

I thank my children for inspiring me to be the best possible version of myself.

I am the next Martin Scorsese.

Most artists would be overwhelmed by my blizzard of creativity,

But not me.

You see, I don’t have to be overwhelmed by things that only exist in my head.

Blame it on the ADD.

I am no one.