Bukowski - Poetry is what happens when nothing else can

Red cardinal was fluttering in the bushes today,

bare branches accentuating its red feathers

it reminded me of blood

in this dark hour of wanting

blood bright and red and sticky

flowing and carrying you

emphasizing my thoughts.

What can we do?

We are so far apart

even though you stand

next to me

I write lines

with red feelings

lines with power to release

crippling pain.

I write words

profound yet powerless

they say words have power

but these words only carry helplessness

and despair

and quiet acceptance of defeat.

Poetry is what happens

when love can’t.