It may be arduous at times
finding the light in a world as despairing as ours
but I assure you my friend
that even in the darkest of corners
and the in the most desolate of silences
there will always be a glow
to guide you away
from your solitary tribulation
and into the arms
and if you seek diligently
mercy will seek you
just the same
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
Hey, how have you been?
(I’ve missed you)
I’ve been good.
(I’m a mess)
Yeah, It’s been awhile.
(I’ve thought about you everyday)
What are you doing these days?
(Tell me you haven’t moved on)
Oh, that’s great.
Me? Yeah, nothing serious though.
(No, not since you)
Yeah, it was good to see you too.
I used to write love letters everyday to the same boy.
They were a little verbose but they were beautiful, to me anyway,
and held all of the words that I was always too afraid to say aloud.
I had become adept at articulating the feelings that consumed me
but the more he broke my heart, the less I forgave him,
and the less I wrote about love.
Now the word sits bitterly in my mouth
and I write melancholy poems about stars and kids who don’t want to grow up.
They’re a little verbose, but they’re beautiful, to me anyway.
The more you hurt me
the more I believe that
perhaps my masochism
is getting out of control…
Whoever said “actions speak louder than words”
had never believed a lie,
so truly that it emptied their heart
and clouded their eyes.
They never saw the difference
between touch and emotions
because sentiment and sex
are entirely different notions
and when they’re confused, a volatile mix
that makes you’re head spin
and you’re stomach sick.