Alone With Everybody by Charles Bukowski
the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and the men drink too much and nobody finds the one but keep looking crawling in and out of beds.
flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh.
there's no chance.
at all:
we are all trapped by a singular fate.
nobody ever finds the one.
the city dumps fill the junkyards fill the madhouses fill the hospitals fill the graveyards fill
nothing else fills.
the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and the men drink too much and nobody finds the one but keep looking crawling in and out of beds.
flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh.
there's no chance.
at all:
we are all trapped by a singular fate.
nobody ever finds the one.
the city dumps fill the junkyards fill the madhouses fill the hospitals fill the graveyards fill
nothing else fills.
Always haunted by
the idea that you're wasting your life.
the idea that you're wasting your life.
Memories of the future.
The ink never actually runs out sometimes, it only takes longer to flow. A book on the shelf may collect dust, but it never fails to remember the hands that once turned its pages. Few stars ever align, nevertheless, they still glow from where they are, far away however persistent. Perhaps drifting as an idea isn't enough, but it proves the existence, and isn't that something? Possibly the punishment for cutting off inspiration is feeling its absence. And maybe, just maybe, the sense that nothing is entirely fine is the universeβs way of telling you that something still waits to be written.
Beneath the willow tree, we'd drink coffee and be free.
The ink never actually runs out sometimes, it only takes longer to flow. A book on the shelf may collect dust, but it never fails to remember the hands that once turned its pages. Few stars ever align, nevertheless, they still glow from where they are, far away however persistent. Perhaps drifting as an idea isn't enough, but it proves the existence, and isn't that something? Possibly the punishment for cutting off inspiration is feeling its absence. And maybe, just maybe, the sense that nothing is entirely fine is the universeβs way of telling you that something still waits to be written.
Beneath the willow tree, we'd drink coffee and be free.
Ink tints eternity.
What we write, once dribbled onto the page, is no longer thoroughly ours it carries on a life of its own. Words are wild creatures, weaving themselves into essences even we may not foresee. Conceivably thatβs the magnificence of it knowing that what is written today might be looked over with other eyes hereafter. And in that manner, even if we are fleeting, the ink sticks around, whispering into the hush the tales of those who dared to let it flow.
What we write, once dribbled onto the page, is no longer thoroughly ours it carries on a life of its own. Words are wild creatures, weaving themselves into essences even we may not foresee. Conceivably thatβs the magnificence of it knowing that what is written today might be looked over with other eyes hereafter. And in that manner, even if we are fleeting, the ink sticks around, whispering into the hush the tales of those who dared to let it flow.
I want to love you, but I better not touch I wanna hold you, but my senses tell me to stop.
I wanna kiss you, but I want it too much
I wanna taste you, but your lips are venomous poison
You're poison running through my veins.
- Alice Cooper.
I wanna kiss you, but I want it too much
I wanna taste you, but your lips are venomous poison
You're poison running through my veins.
- Alice Cooper.
We are like the dreamer,
who dreams and then lives inside the dream.
But who is the dreamer?
who dreams and then lives inside the dream.
But who is the dreamer?
Never look back at the past, my angel.
It leaps at your throat like a mad dog.
It leaps at your throat like a mad dog.
I wish there was a way to
know you're in the good old days,
before you've actually left them.
-Nard Dog.
know you're in the good old days,
before you've actually left them.
-Nard Dog.
Stay true to your ideas.
They tell you everything.
They tell you everything.
The agony of finishing.
It's that eerie emptiness that feels more real than life itself, like leaving a dream. that feeling of being briefly separated from the past and the future. Whether it's a sitcom, a lengthy film, a book, or an album featuring your favorite amazing musicians, you've invested so much time in that world that when it ends, it feels like you're losing a part of yourself. It would be like bidding farewell to a friend who never knew your name but somehow knew you better than most people ever could.
It's the pain of realizing that things will never be the same for you again. You can read it again, watch it again, and play it again, but the initial absorption, the excitement of,the expectation of an unknown that no longer exists.
It's that eerie emptiness that feels more real than life itself, like leaving a dream. that feeling of being briefly separated from the past and the future. Whether it's a sitcom, a lengthy film, a book, or an album featuring your favorite amazing musicians, you've invested so much time in that world that when it ends, it feels like you're losing a part of yourself. It would be like bidding farewell to a friend who never knew your name but somehow knew you better than most people ever could.
It's the pain of realizing that things will never be the same for you again. You can read it again, watch it again, and play it again, but the initial absorption, the excitement of,the expectation of an unknown that no longer exists.
Procession of the unseen
As I go through my day,
No one recognizes me.
Not the people
Not the street
Wouldn't even be cruel to me.
I live in the shadow
Of the tall city walls
No home
No warmth
No destiny
I can't afford
A will
A want
A dream to be
In the busy hours of life
I vanish right away
Not a night owl
Not a dawn's glow
Just the degeneration
Of what was once reality.
I exist
Not to be seen,
Not to be felt,
Not to be held tightly.
As I go through my day,
No one recognizes me.
Not the people
Not the street
Wouldn't even be cruel to me.
I live in the shadow
Of the tall city walls
No home
No warmth
No destiny
I can't afford
A will
A want
A dream to be
In the busy hours of life
I vanish right away
Not a night owl
Not a dawn's glow
Just the degeneration
Of what was once reality.
I exist
Not to be seen,
Not to be felt,
Not to be held tightly.
It is not me who is unseen, but rather the people who are lost in the stream I am here and thus I stay I longed for warmth, but I loved the breeze of the willow tree I did love the hush and its untold stories, but here I am talking more about I thought what was gone; don't combine things and think too much what will be will be, but I must admit I enjoy that fascinating war of words.