Re-reading the first draft of a poem I wrote months ago for a collection I am working on, and a sigh of regret before 9 a.m. Sometimes, I wonder why I write poems that punch me in the gut. Am I too cowardly, thinking maybe words are safer than physically hurting one's self? I don't know, definitely not what I was thinking when I was writing it.
"... the doorbell rings
and I stand determined
not to answer."
(Storm For The Living And The Dead;p-109-CBukowsky)
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