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?