The roads I drive to work are scarred - all of them like the people who pass me, they think themselves important they all lie these roads are patched and worn and trying to look whole the lines scraped away, replaced by intermittent ******* painted over scars, mistakes that can’t be hidden but I feel them when I cross their grooves and ridges like malice and envy - open your eyes dipshits! don’t be afraid - hell my whole life is a mistake without which I wouldn’t have words slow down and feel the roads you’re living on or at least look at them- *******
In memory of Charles Bukowski, American poet, 1920-1994 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Bukowski