(with acknowledgements to Charles Bukowski)
I sit here on the 3rd floor
hunched over in monochrome
walking clothes
pretending to be
a writer.
Alone today
but on other days
other people around me
have pretended
much better than me.
The story of the day
like every other day
is a story for me
about a person like me
with thoughts like me
doing things like me.
We write what we know.
But what do I know?
I sometimes read
what I have written
and wonder what the fuck
I think I’m doing.
Once a flood
some words fall together
that don’t seem awful
but most of the time
they look back at me
like unwanted children.
People wonder why I do it
if it isn’t making me happy
or going anywhere
and I wonder myself
I do wonder
but I keep going.
Perhaps this is the reason:
I need to hear
the gods laugh
the gods laugh
the gods laugh.
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