If I could be the next Bukowski.

The truth is,

I haven’t wrtitten a decent poem in months,

fucking months,

and I swear every time I try and get the words out,

I find out I have nothing to say,

nothing new,

nothing original.

Nothing worthy of any sort of literary praise.

Not unless, of course,

It was intended to be the perspective of a third grader,

In that case, I must be fucking brilliant.

I’m stuck,

in my own box,

inside my own head,

locked up by my own dreams.

Hoping I can somehow make something out of me,

But everytime I try,

I feel this overwhelming,

aggressive,

puncturing,

guilt (shame),

for the changes I have made in my life.

I can’t touch a pen because I know one day,

One day soon,

or maybe one day very far,

they’ll come spilling out.

And how do I tell those who ridicule me.

Who claim innocence and love.

Yet I feel i’ve been scammed.

For believing something that I truly thought made me who I am.

They would all look at me with sorrow filled eyes,

feeling as though all my faith has been compromised.

Though,

they can’t see my journey,

through the ice storm,

and my walk into the breeze,

they can’t know the things,

the things that are made of me.

Here is where I stumble,

alone sometimes.

Sometimes in the dark,

but I know I’ve effected someones life.

I know I have made my mark.

I suppose that’s why I’m okay with change.

Because I don’t regret being the person that I once was,

See, if you look closely.

You would get that I was still here.

I’m still me, with the same heart that’s always been bleeding.

….

And still I know no one will care to look,

at my bleeding heart.

It’s why I stopped writing down my words,

in order to give myself a head start.