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, **** you!
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.