If I didn’t know better, I would have guessed my sitting^Wlaying in the bath was inspiration. 

Well, it was something like that.

And the dreams of Antigua Race Week.

And finishing the Bukowski book this morning. 

Turns out he wrote a lot of poetry. And fancied himself as a ladies man. And enjoyed imbibing a bit too much of the falling down juice too.

So, not such a bad guy after all then 😂

Seriously though, the bath, Bukowski being a prolific poet (though I haven’t read any of his yet), and my recent musings over future-past/bucket-list/death have kinda sparked me to, once again, be the poet. I doubt I’ll ever do the art any justice, but it’s nice to fill the spaces between short story writing (one finished, but needs feedback/2nd draft) and novelling (I got a new story cooking — similar to writing software, if you have a better idea, do that one first, ’cause you can always go back to the original idea later).

Plus poetry comes much easier than short story writing for me.

So here’s a glimpse of a snapshot of my mind right now …

… It may not be the same after the bath 😝


Land Ahoy

Adrift.
I look up and wonder
How much I’ve wandered
In this ocean.
In this deep sea.
I was sailing, wasn’t I?
But my course shows otherwise,
Afloat,
In no particular direction.
Lost and forgotten.
My rudder limp in my hand for so long now,
Meandering with the currents
And at the fate of the winds.
I have lost sight of land.
A clear night sky
Would show the way.
Stars to steer by.
A soul to guide.
I fix my rudder straight
And hold on tight.
My direction settled.
Distant.
But true.
It’s not land I seek
But fresh water
Where waves and depths are new to me.
Where currents flow and challenge me.
Comfort me.
I choose to drown,
Rather than die of thirst.
So let this water give
And take us both.

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