Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

"Bluebird"

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?
-Charles Bukowski

Tupac Shakur: "Only God can Judge me"

I took the liberty and edited it as to only include Tupac's parts.

"Only God can Judge Me"

Only God can judge me, is that right?
[synth voice] Only God can judge me now
Only God baby, nobody else, nobody else
All you other motherfuckers get out my business

[Verse One: 2Pac]

Perhaps I was blind to the facts, stabbed in the back
I couldn't trust my own homies just a bunch a dirty rats
Will I, succeed, paranoid from the weed
And hocus pocus try to focus but I can't see
And in my mind I'ma blind man doin time
Look to my future cause my past, is all behind me
Is it a crime, to fight, for what is mine?
Everybody's dyin tell me what's the use of tryin
I've been Trapped since birth, cautious, cause I'm cursed
And fantasies of my family, in a hearse
And they say it's the white man I should fear
But, it's my own kind doin all the killin here
I can't lie, ain't no love for the other side
Jealousy inside, make em wish I died
Oh my Lord, tell me what I'm livin for
Everybody's droppin got me knockin on heaven's door
And all my memories, of seein brothers bleed
And everybody grieves, but still nobody sees
Recollect your thoughts don't get caught up in the mix
Cause the media is full of dirty tricks
Only God can judge me

[Verse Two: 2Pac]

I hear the doctor standing over me

screamin I can make it
Got a body full of bullet holes layin here naked
Still I, can't breathe, somethings evil in my IV
Cause everytime I breathe, I think they killin me
I'm having nightmares, homicidal fantansies
I wake up stranglin, danglin my bed sheets
I call the nurse cause it hurts, to reminisce
How did it come to this? I wish they didn't miss
Somebody help me, tell me where to go from here
Cause even Thugs cry, but do the Lord care?
Try to remember, but it hurts
I'm walkin through the cemetary talkin to the, dirt
I'd rather die like a man, than live like a coward
There's a ghetto up in Heaven and it's ours, Black Power
is what we scream as we dream in a paranoid state
And our fate, is a lifetime of hate
Dear Mama, can you save me? And fuck peace
Cause the streets got our babies, we gotta eat
No more hesitation each and every black male's trapped
And they wonder why we suicidal runnin round strapped
Mista, Po-lice, please try to see that it's
a million motherfuckers stressin just like me
Only God can judge me

[Interlude: 2Pac]

That which does not kill me can only make me stronger
(That's for real)
and I don't see why everybody feel as though
that they gotta tell me how to live my life
(You know?)
Let me live baby, let me live

Dying by Emily Dickinson

"Dying"

I heard a fly buzz when I died;
The stillness round my form
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the heaves of storm.

The eyes beside had wrung them dry,
And breaths were gathering sure
For that last onset, when the king
Be witnessed in his power.

I willed my keepsakes, signed away
What portion of me I
Could make assignable,-and then
There interposed a fly,

With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
Between the light and me;
And then the windows failed, and then
I could not see to see.

-Emily Dickinson

To The Whore Who Took My Poems by Charles Bukowski

"To The Whore Who Took My Poems"

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

-Charles Bukowski

A poem by William Carlos Williams

As the cat
climbed over
the top of

the jamcloset
first the right
forefoot

carefully
then the hind
stepped down

into the pit of
the empty
flowerpot.

-- William Carlos Williams.

Devolutionist

I entered the Wordclay seasonal writing contest for poetry and was one of 100 finalists chosen. I, along with all the finalists and the winner were included in the Best Modern Voices: A Poetry Anthology. I just thought I would share one of the poems I liked from the anthology, this one was the runner up. It's a very well constructed piece and resonates far after you've finished reading.

"Devolutionist"
I used to be an ocean vast and filled with life. I could account

for everything, for I'd been there for all time. I used to stretch

for miles; I used to take up all the earth. I used to be everyone's

everything; you'll just have to take my word for it.

I used to be a great lake. I used to be the biggest one. I was the

womb from which the moon was birthed when the sun had finally

gone. I used to glitter all the time, rain or shine, and day or night.

I was the place you brought your girl to ask her hand in marriage.
You used to contemplate your days at my water's edge.

Then I turned into a pond perfect to sail upon. The best of friends

spent many times together, fishing and laughing until the day was

done. I used to be the spot you watched fireworks burst on the

fourth of July. And I froze up in December when you learned your

best friend had died. I even used to hug the ground where your

family dog now lays.

And then I was a river, quickly flowing over time. I used to carve

sharp rocks into perfect skipping stones. I used to breathe a

constant pace. I used to carry my own beat. You used to come to

me just to wash your dirty feet. We watched the stars together; we

used to spill the same amount of tears. I watched you bloom and

grow; together we shared the best of years.

But now I am a creek, under a bridge somewhere unknown. Time

has shrunk me down, and I am here to rest alone. Some days are

better than some others; my water flows and then dries up. It

would help to have some company; it would help to have my friend.

But I just don't really know when I'll ever see her again.

-Daniel Bristol

The Genius Of The Crowd by Charles Bukowski

"The Genius Of The Crowd"

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock
their finest art

-Charles Bukowski