bukowski

What are you supposed to think

when you grow older and all

you have left are books of poems

filled with words that you wrote

but now seem unimportant?

Pages and pages of crap about

the people you've met, loved, hated

but nothing that seems worth

looking back upon because

it just makes you so sick.

When I'm old enough to have

that pathetic collection of poems

that I keep stacked on a table

like puzzle pieces to my wasted life,

I still won't be Bukowski.

At least he knew what the fuck

he was doing and could tie

words together so that they

pulled each other along like

the cars of a freight train.

And all the while I keep writing

because it seems to be the only

constant thing in my life that

will always be there even if

I leave it in the corner, ignored.

But no matter how many pages

and pages of crap I put on paper,

I will never be that asshole that

wrote such beautiful fucking poems.

I'll never be Bukowski.