I thought I would try
to write like Bukowski.
But then I thought,
I have no experience
when it comes to
horse races
or women.
So I gave up
and wrote
this ****** poem instead.
They're always ******,
unless you've got enough whiskey
to rid yourself of that
nagging voice,
the one that reminds you of your mother,
the one that always says
it's not good enough.
Oh hell, I guess even I can write
like Bukowski.

It's a quarter till Midnight

And the darkness whistles in my ears

Bristles are split by the weary spears

From the hands of pall bearers

Lifting hundreds from one abyss to the other

For life is circular in natural stone boulders

Scriptures are faded by dust and wind

Left as hieroglyphs by the ancients

Whom wished to give knowledge to the world

Knowledge of architecture, agriculture, and spirits

The curves of Mother Earth and the voice of Father God

Although the closest to God is a mother

Who gives life, a super natural ability, and honor

It's eleven till Midnight and light floods my room

For just on the other side of a few inch thick door

Lies a man with a gun, a 40, and an attitude

Engaging the neighbors beneath and beside him

Laughing from the turmoil of the day

While shifting his eyes to hide tears

As his son is in the hospital but his sons mother despises him

For he had no time, therefore no interest

In the seed he had planted in a one time plastic *** from Home Depot

It's eight minutes till midnight and I miss the moon

I'm too fearful to leave my door

As I watch videos of idiotic and moronic

People's who want to change the world

With no plan, only a vision, of milk and honey flowing

Work is a theory and talking matter

It is an excuse to imbibe coffee and consume pastries  

For ideas are more interesting than actions

For those who use actions are mere talking points for gossip

It's four minutes until midnight and my life isn't mine

It hasn't been mine for years

Since my inception I was fed lies, just like you

The newest lie is I should be happy

The second newest lie is I should be sad

The third newest lie is that my brother will get better

Because how can one become better...

If born from an incident

As a result of negative consequence

It's two minutes till Midnight and I know he never had a chance

I would give up my life for his

But it would change nothing for our parents would still cry

For my actions have been misleading

And he has been stripped of what was rightfully his

A chance to live his own life

It's midnight and my thoughts devour my soul

In the form of shadows dancing along the walls of my bedroom

I wish I was a dream weaver

I try to control every variable
Just like an experiment
Like a mad scientist
If something goes wrong it could cost some blood
A hamstring
My shins

My heart is pounding like a runaway train
Chugging along and always speeding up that it sometimes trips over itself in my chest
Fluttering

I tune out everything except for the official

I set my blocks
I am already trying to catch my breath to calm the butterflies in my stomach
I wipe my hands on my spandex
They're covered in sweat

I let out a shaky breath. Telling myself "You know the drill"

"Ladies stand in your lanes"
I do a couple tuck jumps
Double check my spikes, my hair
I shake out my hands hoping to wipe off the nervousness
But know deep inside my heart that it's the only thing keeping me sane

"On your marks"
A sour taste forms in my mouth
All I can do now is think about my start
Another variable I become the master of
Low and drive
I get on my trembling hands as I slide my feet in the blocks
I inhale-my breath quivering
I peer ahead at the finish line in front of me
It's so close yet oh so far away

"Set"
Is there a word for when all of your potential energy instantly turns into kinetic?
All of your nervousness turning to pure adrenaline?

Is there a word for that split second after the gun goes off?
For what it feels like when my muscles stretch and scream for oxygen?
My mind goes blank
I can't hear any of the yelling or my runaway heartbeat
I don't think about who's beside me

This race isn't about the competitors next to me
It's the clock
That irrevocable tick that means almost everything
That horrendous voice inside my head saying I am too tired
Slow down
My legs weren't made for this
But I know deep down inside that it's my brain trying giving up

I keep running because I don't care about the voices in my head or the sprinters beside me
I race against time
An irrevocable substance that will always win
But I was born to run

Is there a word for when your brain gives up and you are running with pure adrenaline and heart?

Is there a word for running so fast time slows down? You can hear your mothers pleads, your fathers coaching, your friends reassurance as you pass by but it doesn't even process until after you are done

You can feel every millisecond in your toes when you spikes dig into the track

You can feel everything that could have gone wrong but somehow went right and you don't even register it until after

I make it to the finish line in one piece
My muscles are tight and my lungs are trying to catch up with my racing heart
My head is pounding and I don't remember what just happened
But I get a feeling that it was something wonderful
I can't find a word for it

I wish there was because  I would have already said it by now