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
His tongue is sharper and quicker
than any edge I have ever used
to lighten the mood
and he knows exactly where to cut the deepest
so that an intoxicating sort of resentment
pours from wounds so thin
I don’t even see them at first
cuts so deep rarely heal cleanly
but leave handsome scars
from one corner of my chest
to the other
and as ugly as the world may think they are
they remind me of him
every raised line is like a poignant remark
and every shallow crater another kiss goodbye
not too long and just bitter enough
to leave me alone in a wake of my own indignation
as I grope through the contents of our previous exchanges
like a blind man
looking through a drawer he’d never opened before
and when he returns I’ll still be looking
but I’ll stand up and laugh in his face anyway
as I straighten just enough to hold in front of him
my mock victory and he’ll say to me once more
let’s begin again
We had our time then
but now I believe it has past.
I hope to see you when
knees and necks will bend
to the light again,
a time coming fast.
We had our time then,
but now I believe it has past.
I’ve figured out
that if I shake my leg up and down
for long enough
it starts to hurt
and that just about
does the trick.
Picture Credit: Fernando Cobelo
I’ve spent months
that felt like years
trying so hard
just to sail away from you
and yet you’ve drifted closer
and more often by
then the wreckage
that I knew
so much better than yours.
I’ve sunk ships that were larger,
and had much wider sterns than yours,
but I could never even poke a hole
in your sail
or leave a dent in your hull.
Now, as I ease and trim the sails
you fade to the distance
but as I turn leeward
the wind carries me back to you anyway
and I wonder if it even matters
the direction I face.
Everything about me
makes me long for you,
and every long day
makes me miss those fleeting moments
we shared together.
Every tear I shed
of the ones you wiped from my face
and as the pain gets a little worse
I try not to remember
how you made it better.
Every word I write
is pushing you away
so for now
I’ll be the one thats new
and you can be weathered.
Sometimes I have to grab her hand
and pull her out of the past
because she’ll stay there so long
even I wont be able to see the future.
Staring so hard at all of the things that she wishes she could change
that she doesn’t even see whats been passing her by.
If she hadn’t spent so much time
focused on the past way back then
I think maybe her present
would be so much different now.
I really wish I could show her what she’s missing
but sometimes its hard to take your own advice.