Thursday, April 29, 2010

Bukowski

Bukowski, tell me what is wrong.
I stopped existing when I read you
Killed my mind when I met you
It might be an excuse, but you must see
That no one knows me better
Than that bluebird in my heart
You gave me the words
So that I could understand
The deep fluttering, and scraping
Inside the only thing
That mechanically keeps me moving
Yet, I'm told all source of feeling
comes from that very spot
Visibly seeing it pumping
Liquifying my words
But the silence
It's unheard of
I try and try to write
That I end up writing
About you
All because I began
Related
Tried to understand
I did realize
Realize the truth
That I couldn't write worth a damn
it was always you.

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