It's what I do when everything is too much, or too little. Reading Bukowski. Whenever the summer is too hot, my heart is broken or my boss mops the floor with my hard-earned degrees... I pick up some of his poetry and I let myself get lost, kind of like hopping on a boat on an autumn afternoon, melancholy is never far, but it's warm and mellow and diluted just enough to let you survive it... no tears, only a hungry, flaming hole in the heart.
Hi. I am a poet. But I will never be a great one. Sometimes I am really sad that not many people will read my words and know me the way I craved to be known. There are too many words on this planet as it is. But when I read Bukowski, suddenly this enormous, poetic loneliness inside of me gains a grumpy company, but a company nonetheless... as I travel on through the horrors of the ordinary, the mundane, the slightly bizarre, the words I lack, he always provides.
Today, I could just scream until i blow off the rooftop, so I knew it was time for "Burning in water, drowning in flame".
I try to push myself to say the ugly. To let the cracks show. Own my insanity. Write as it is. I am not there yet. It feels like reaching into the ocean's depth with a bare hand. Maybe I will never get there, but on that journey, Bukowski is my lighthouse. It's where I hang my tired soul and the pressures of this world are suddenly gone.
Thank you, old man.
Hi. I am a poet. But I will never be a great one. Sometimes I am really sad that not many people will read my words and know me the way I craved to be known. There are too many words on this planet as it is. But when I read Bukowski, suddenly this enormous, poetic loneliness inside of me gains a grumpy company, but a company nonetheless... as I travel on through the horrors of the ordinary, the mundane, the slightly bizarre, the words I lack, he always provides.
Today, I could just scream until i blow off the rooftop, so I knew it was time for "Burning in water, drowning in flame".
I try to push myself to say the ugly. To let the cracks show. Own my insanity. Write as it is. I am not there yet. It feels like reaching into the ocean's depth with a bare hand. Maybe I will never get there, but on that journey, Bukowski is my lighthouse. It's where I hang my tired soul and the pressures of this world are suddenly gone.
Thank you, old man.
