it has not sprung forth, but
i've decided that
i should say it anyway.
words in the wilderness,
strung together for the
sake of stringing together-
and i shall say them,
because i should say them anyway.

it is not a drive of self love, but
loathing
for which i present;
this pretentious asshole
burning inside me is dying,
and the books i've filled
were dead words;
but i felt the need to
say them anyway.

i could have reserved this,
i could have changed my mind;
you explicitly tell me,
that unless it drives me
to do horrible things,

i should just shut up.

but i feel that, these
moments
drawn out for the sake of time,
for the sake of wasting away,
have been tortured long enough.

you tell me, dear bukowski,
that i should forget about it;
my inspirations are wholly
of your making.

and true, these words may
not consume, they may not
materialize in any grand design;

you tell me,
"there is no other way,
and there never was"


and i dare say i'd agree,

if only to say it.

09/12/2004

Author's Note: writing this for a creative writing assignment. the idea was to base this poem off of another of our own choosing, my choice being bukowski's 'so you want to be a writer'. The idea was to copy the general style and content of the poem. not particularily creative as an assignment, but somewhat of a challenge. anyways, critiques? i posted my first version of this assignment earlier today, and i decided that it was terrible. so this is the second version. any suggestions would be mighty helpful. thanks!

Posted on 09/12/2004
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