• clichepenname 8w

    Based on Charles Bukowskis quote on what is it to be a poet.

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    It all started at the Bukowski's bar on the corner of cirrhosis street

    tumbling on
    piss soaked asphalt
    I bruised my creative veins

    words bleeding from
    thumping thesaurus capillaries
    paint pages that never leave libraries

    thirsty for a muse
    I dragged polished books
    to the corner of cirrhosis street

    shining in black and white
    a hunched hobo with a bible quote
    smiled toothless at the bar's turnstile

    "Drop your best poem here
    artists have nothing to fear"
    He said, pointing to a pot of verses

    rummaging through memories
    I crumpled my art into a spiky ball
    to pay for passage through my lyrical Styx

    a prostitute painting contused lips
    carpet soaked with spilled humors
    welcomed my nose to Bukowski bar

    a faceless bartender filled a glass
    with gold and pointed me to an ill lit corner
    evading broken glass, I reached a rickety table

    sweating rhymes as a typewriter chimed
    an old man smoking with brush back hair
    placed a rugged hand on my jittery shoulders

    "You seek the muse
    that ignites a fuse,
    carefully you must choose
    so in the end you don't loose" he said

    taking a swig from a golden bottle
    he studied my eyes for many moments
    and advised in a tone known to many artists

    "Write for the right reasons and also
    for the right people, don't go for gold,
    there's plenty in the afterlife but there aren’t
    right reasons or people once you’re gone”

    With that he disappeared in a fog of
    stale tobacco, I ardently search
    for the right reason and person

    till this day, hoping to be sought
    posthumously like that
    smoking old man.