strange thoughts on a thursday evening
this whole day has been one of
anxiety and anticipation
seeking truth
within a world of lies

undone and
left with half a fifteen pack
consumed
frustration is
rolling up to the surface
the nicotine helps
as i cope with visions of sex
and natural living

it’s cold outside
but that breeze feels good
crisp, sobering
and almost setting the mood
such bipolar weather
but inside is warm
lit with a wood stove
and almost uninviting

with half a buzz
i’m forgetting complications
meditating
in a strange sort of way
smoking unfinished cigarettes
as i always do
it burns
and i cherish it
this moment is raw and unfiltered

i’m at the crossroads once again
lucky that my cat
insists on
sitting in my lap
i love that purr
that rub
it’s unconditional
heaven

writing in this altered state
i’m uninterrupted
in a glorious stream of consciousness
but everything i say is bullshit
and that’s the beauty of “my wisdom”
i wonder does every poem need a title?

shameless
i remember a gaze meant to distract
nameless
dying once and again
for good measure

longing for that touch
as these lines flow through me
if only i could harness them
and tap that unseen inspiration
i call it the bukowski method

drunk and unfulfilled
a different feeling begins to set in
women do it to me every time
no response but what did i expect
sometimes i feel like this is
nothing
and everything