Note To Self

I thought it’d be easy

Trying to hammer out words

After an awful day

While listening to

Classical music and call it

Poetry.

I don’t know how Bukowski did it

Maybe poverty and starvation give

You reason to be creative

Like he once said

“You either get it out on paper

Or jump off a bridge.”

Now I never could learn to write

Until I was sixteen

Until I refused to crumble under pressure

And prove to the world that I too

Had a voice worth listening to.

My pen is the embodiment of wrath

It might be enough to stir despair

In your heart

And so I carry on this torch of life

Like many others before me

To write for me

To write for someone who’s one step closer to the edge

To tremble the editors and critics of this world

With the sheer, brute force of reality.