Bukowski once said that there is no point in writing
If the words are not ready to burst from your skull
Wayward pilgrims demanding surcease at an altar of irreverence
Hoping to be spoken aloud
Birthed on thoughts from the pits of our soul
No, he didn’t say that last part
But they were clawing in the bone of my skull
Rending gaps that would pour my conscious mind free
Demolishing the hell that justifies heaven
If you asked me what paradise was,
I don’t think I would have an answer
It’s a world that is changing from day to day
Hardly the province of a sculptor’s hand
Forever unchanging in the veins of stone
Pulsing with meaning that only vision can carve
With infinite meanings in the myriad of views
We each walk away with something that’s just a little different
Like words that we share and speak with different tones
Just to change the flavor of meaning
Savoring the twist on the tips of our tongues
Owning the breath to sway the heart of dirt and stone
Competing for the love of every tree and upturned rock
Whispering our lust the leaves of autumn
Knowing that they will never rise back to the tree
But catching their rotting death in immortal ballads
This is how I imagine my paradise to be
Your silent presence ever creating the stone
Which my words will shape with the rough chisel of force
As I define the world that you crave
While never caring about what you deserve
These are the words that would fall
From every bleeding laceration on my used and tired heart
Bursting from my chest in time with a heart that would stop beating
Just to draw forth a tear
For the paradise I know I already have
But am too callous to appreciate
So I take a deep breath and continue
Walking down a path of dirt and stone
Careless of the footprints I leave
Disturbing nature with fetid pleasure
Don’t we all destroy what we love the most?