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?