Friday, November 2, 2012

“Poetry is what happens when nothing else can” Bukowski

The sequel of night
Is ‘just’ another night.
Cold and blank
When the sun in my head
Burns every cell
Every emotion
But refuses to come out
Unless it’s in the form of poetry.

With each passing day
My gods are becoming fewer and smaller
But the people with newspaper ideas n’ television heads
Are getting bigger and hungrier.
The soul is rare
The magic even rarer
But I still believe in it
Crazy eyes can’t see beyond it.

There are still miles in my cup of coffee
Infinite songs in my silence.
There is still a chance in not having a chance
Clarity in accidental darkness.

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