because of Bukowski






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




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








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.

Please Login to Comment