To Be Continued…

I’ve stayed awake all night writing letters that I’ll never sign

filling cup after cup with bitter coffee even though I never reach the bottom

before the fluid hurt gets cold, and loses its appeal

listening to 3 minutes of every song before skipping to the next

to avoid the bridge that I don’t know the lyrics to

never sitting down long enough to see the end of the film

I was watching just to procrastinate

I’ve only read half, maybe less, of just about every one of Bukowski’s books

and never have the heart to read until the last page

leaving unfinished poems strewn about the room from one corner to other

they are accompanied by cigarettes that saw 2 drags

before my lungs decided enough was enough

flowers far past the point of living that I had planted but never watered

they’re a melancholic sort of decoration that were given a purpose

but were never given a clear direction

and like us

I could bring all of these things to a close if I wanted to

for now, I think that this book in particular

is better left open

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