You read Bukowski on the table and cry.
You’re so alone in this room, full of unnecessary stuff,
bought for fun,
bought at reduced prices,
bought for the moment.
So many things, just lying on the floor,
like the useless memories in your head.
No people, no emotions – only this stuff,
here and there some colours, distant noises,
snatches of conversations, well forgotten savours.
No people you know, no friends you trust, no melody you love, no line you adore.
And you’re alone,
alone,
alone.
They just take too much from you.
And you don’t give them enough.
And you know, you were not created for love.
You were not created for words.
You were not created.
You were not.
One alone
ReplyDeleteLonely as a desert breeze,
I may wander where I please,
Yet I keep on longing,
Just to rest a while.
Where a sweetheart's tender eyes,
Take the place of sand and skies,
All the world forgotten
In one woman's smile.
One alone to be my own,
I alone to know her caresses;
One to be eternally
The one my worshipping soul possesses.
At her call I'd give my all,
All my life and all my love enduring;
This would be a magic world to me,
If she were mine alone.
Oscar Hammerstein II