I used to write what my soul poured,
Let the words set themselves,
Anguish and despair were all I wore,
A flame and a cig were my only friends;
It made me feel like Bukowski,
Drowned in words filled with sorrow,
With a broken heart because of him,
But now that it's all over;
I only write out of habit,
He took my poetry when he left
Like Alice through the hole of a rabbit,
And disappeared witht the perfect theft;
I'm trying to figure out
What to write about,
The new boy who hasn't come out?
Or the man who craves for my mouth?
But my poetry, my poems,
The only thing I was proud of,
Are the ones who suffer the most,
They're lacking the fuel that ignited them,
I let them all be about men,
And what was the cost?
I've obliterated them.
My poetry is dead.
Like my soul hopes to be.
