Hey Bukowski, You know the poem you wrote? About wanting to be a writer? How if it doesn't spill From your guts, Then don't do it? Well, *******!
Not all us Poets are street-corner Prophets spewing in lyrical tongues, Made of alliterations and metaphors.
For some, the poem Is agonizing. A slow-burn cancer, That eats at our minds, our souls Seeping out the walls.
It doesn't burst forth like some jail break; More like that guy, from the movie with Morgan Freeman, Who crawls through miles of **** Just to get to freedom.
My poems may look And smell Like ****;
It may have taken them a while To crawl to freedom. But they did.