I have been reading Charles Bukowski.  He is brilliant.
It makes me want to try to write.
Here goes.


So many times I sit and look.
Into nothing.
Into space.
I like looking out, looking at nothing
all the while looking in
looking at nothing.

I look through a fog
of caffeine.
of alcohol.
of self-indulgence.

My self-hatred completes me
When nothing else does.
It comforts me.

I look out of my windows.
It is green and gray.
I admire the green.
It is too cheerful, though.
I love the gray.
It fills me up.
It makes me warm.
And cold.