because of Bukowski



AUTHOR

Shreya

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at night in a fast asleep house

 

an uncalled for chilly wind in summer

 

with cigarettes after sex playing in my ears

 

missing the lumineers but not forgetting how they felt

 

listening to my own thoughts

 

breathing

 

then breathing again

 

looking to my right and finding peace for a few hours

 

the heavy sleep in my eyes making me smile;

 

that's the best.

 

 

hugging myself a little tighter

 

thinking it could have been you

 

cussing at the thought

 

way past midnight

 

thinking of a damn good line but not writing it down

 

thinking about all that i could have done

 

thinking about all that i should not have said

 

listening to my thoughts

 

looking inside my head

 

looking at the image of a broken self curled up

 

bawling

 

weeping

 

pathetic

 

just not learning;

 

that's the worst.

 

 

shaking it off

 

listening to Gregory Alan

 

letting him remind me how i am different

 

just not learning

 

being stubborn for all the right reasons

 

hurting myself but not him

 

waiting for an answer

 

never actually getting one

 

but not regretting never asking

 

past midnight at 3 am

 

so close to sunrise

 

the air still illegally chilly

 

pleading me to not tell the sun it was here in summer

 

with the house fast asleep

 

this poetry inspired by a dead old crude poet

 

listening to my thoughts

 

serene, beautiful, pathetic;

 

that's the best.

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