{random poetry #3}

well, that's just the way it is....

sometimes when everything seems at
its worts
when all conspires
and gnaws
and hours, days, week,
seem wasted...
stretched there upon my bed
in the dark
looking upward at the ceilling
I get what many will considered an
obnoxious thought:
it's still nice to be

[Charles Bukowski (1920-1994) poem adapted from You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense]