every single day there are things that make me think
"huh, I should write about this"
and I make a mental note of it
and then I forget all about it
until the next day
when I see patches of green moss creeping along the cold cement sidewalks
or the warmth of his hand against the small of my back as we boogie down on the dance floor at the Mineshaft to Come On Eileen
playing spin the bottle in a haunted hotel room at four in the morning and hoping to land on the same girl over and over and over again cause her lips taste like cigarettes and Burt's Bees peppermint chapstick and I just ******* crave that **** ya know?
I crave the things that make me want to write, that make me feel inspired, that make me feel human
and at the end of the day it doesn't matter if I write any of it down because I still felt it and I still love it and it still happened and it still counts
life still ******* counts
Oscar Wilde once said something about death that i can no longer remember, but I know it was beautiful.
it had something to do with how there’s no more today or tomorrow.
how time becomes irrelevant
there is no more past
there is no more future
it’s just you
and the soft spring breeze
it's so strange afterwards
when it's finished
when it has been finished for some
she sat on her bed in her bedroom
and I sat in a chair
and I had to tell her how strange it
"nothing against you
but when I look at you now
I can't understand how you ever made a
madman out of me,
how you got hold of my feelings..."
she just sat there and smiled,
her body the same,
her red hair as long as ever.
she had never loved me.
it only mattered a little to her
that I had gotten away.
she was working on other prey.
she sat there and told me about him.
when I left I didn't kiss her goodbye.
I got into my car and drove away.
after driving 4 or 5 blocks
I was no longer
thinking about her.
By Charles Bukowski
I had rain in my eyes,
Making puddles in my palm,
Flooding my soul,
After almost drowning,
You emerged as my life jacket.
Still do not wash away the
Bitterness you left
When we hold hands
I feel the warmth dwelled in your palm
So I become warm too
I feel your pulse from your beating vein
So my heart starts to pump
Thus my blood begin to run
Do no drop my hand
Do I have to beg
If I want to be alive?
Maybe one day when the days are fine,
Maybe some years after nine.
Maybe then we come across each other or maybe we won't.
Maybe we ignore or maybe we won't,
Maybe we smile or maybe we won't.
Maybe we crave for that one hug or maybe we won't.
Maybe then you notice the love in my eyes or maybe you won't,
Maybe you can hear the poem my eyes recite or maybe you won't.
Maybe you still pull my cheeks or maybe you won't.
Maybe you still laugh on my jokes or maybe you won't.
Maybe we exchange contacts or maybe we won't.
Maybe then you leave saying goodbye once again or maybe you won't.
Maybe you call me later or maybe you won't
Maybe i say hello and you reply or maybe you won't.
Maybe we start once again or maybe we won't.
Maybe we fall in love once again or maybe we won't.
Maybe you too wish the same to happen or maybe you won't.
Maybe you too miss me or maybe you won't.
Maybe you too write the same or maybe you won't.
talk is cheap
I can't afford words
with a pocket full of cash
I'll use inflation as my scapegoat
when you're a store clerk
I'm a kid with troubled eyes
I'll spend my vacant stares like currency
and spare change on vocabularies