“Poetry is what happens when nothing else can.” ~ Bukowski
I guess it is my last resort,
when I have no final retort—
no cards then left to then play,
fall back on these poems, I say.
Dashing down a few quick lines,
in the hope that each refines
these feelings that I still feel,
within a life on the eternal wheel.
Not smart enough to be a Buddhist,
not pretty enough to be a nudist,
I simply just settle in,
allow my poetry to again begin.
Capture the trauma on the paper,
witnessed by the melting taper.
I seal up all my doubts in wax,
in the hope that helps to relax
all of the tension in my neck,
clears the chairs off of the deck,
while I watch my Titanic sink—
smokestacks now below this ink.