Some nights I just sit around,
Waiting for them words,
To come blazing out of my gut,
And I thankfully vomit them on a paper,
Feeling good, feeling better;
That’s how it is,
That’s how it’s supposed to work;
‘You’ don’t create art,
‘You’ just sit patiently,
Until the unexplainable happens inside somewhere,
A fire, a passion, so uncomfortable,
So intense,
Until you can’t live with it,
Until you have to let it all out, vomit,
In the shape of words, sometimes,
Colors, sounds, the other times;
‘You’ are never the one who creates,
‘You’ just let it all happen,
As a medium, an observer;
Too bad the art has turned pretentious
And the audience exists no more
Bukowski would be pissed
But, then again, when was he not?
The kind of writing that shows up uninvited, barefoot, at 3 a.m.
