My first reading of Bukowksi’s poems,
Stumbled on them accidently, looking somewhere else
For answers I think.
How moving the language of his eye
Real as if standing with him,
Looking for ways to write, to become a writer
I stare at his page and think
Poems are what I really want to write
but I so seldom do these days
looking for other ways
to say, I’m a writer. Something commercial
To claim that success has found my pen
Is where my mind has been. I’m a poet
A writer sells words by the page
The poet gives away his heart
Or causes you to feel his twisted rage
What does the poet know
Of how to make a dollar
Bukowski knew it didn’t matter, the money
It’s nice to have. Writers are easily found
Poets on the other hand
Are few

(inspired by “to the whore who stole my poems” Charles Bukowski)