heads without faces,
seen in all the places
to go mad, to suicide or to
continue?
sitting here now is
ridiculously perfect: there's
nothing to compare it
with.
a palsied past and a short
future.
on days like this
one can be depressed by
the message in a fortune
cookie.
November creeps in on all fours
like a leper.
there still might be a place
for us
somewhere.
it's not the doing
it's the waiting.
it's not the waiting
it's the waste.
it's not the waste
it's the durability of
the waste.
one who thus believes,
concedes.
- Charles Bukowski
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1 comment:
Still fighting
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