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Random?
Reading through bukowski's poems,
I've always caught my head
giving it's best to dive right in,
Into the depths of each drop of ink,
With a mind that so stupidly yearns
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I wish I were the poem, not the hand that weaves it. I want to be the pause, not the reason? it pauses.
Penning this down with eyes watery
The pain grips me, a heavy hand,
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Be it the overflow of words, that gets me tongue-tied when the heart isn't at peace,the sea of thoughts that hits me in waves,making sure I don't sink down all at once, a lush bouquet of flowers to soothe the aching senses my soul houses, the sound of thin air, rushing past my ears,as if to pass on some treasured message to somebody afar by ages. Afar by ages? How do I deal with the ache in my heart as I voice out the phrase? - "afar by ages"!
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Long hours of toiling,
Today, I saw a butterfly,
TW; sexual assault
There, she sat on the terrace-floor,
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Two roads diverged in a wood,
I paced in through the darkness;
Walking down the dusty lane,
The world mumbled into her Tiny ears,
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