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-
********
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 3:28 PM UTC
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
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