Bukowski And My Crib

Come light a match to read my night time poem the table legs the way they sway and bend as lovers now unwind. From my suffering his only wish to ease my pain with the poetry of his and my lack of metaphors. I've come to learn the more I make the less I have to write for every one. Houses his, my many cribs I had to hide away others are just what they are that I am not I had to chase away. Children were the source of this he wrote while being told I never was a child like I am right now and running wild the door is closed to that. A good poem I never read whilest he was still alive a better poem that some read was due to alcohol and still a better thought before I died who does or doesn't want to know? The secrets I once held so dear to me were like a flower plucked come some fine morning that the sun has opened.