I’ve felt my way to your eyes and still they hold nobly deep. What is it that flows so steadily through you? Your gaze is nothing defined yet perfectly sincere. I see the volcanic hint of blue; I see behind the mountains. What gold do you keep in those riverbeds? Should I desire it? Is it not magic that keeps those eyes so calm?
Where am I to go? Should I run to you? Will you watch me? Oh, how I’d run.
What is it within me that knows that is not the way?

It’s funny how “bitter sweet” is my favourite feeling at the end of stories. I often wonder if that’s the world or me.

Oh the flute in my soul!
how sweet the sound
how sorrow the cry,
you lead me astray,
you keep me warm,
am I lost, am I safe?

I can’t imagine it and that’s infinity — Six Word Story

To my Infatuation

You’re a dancer in a play
to sift and whim my words away.
You capture the shapes and the forms in beauty
and though you’ve stood still
your eyes run deep like no other,
your silhouette floats imperiously,
and I float too, lost in useless stutter.

Stories; all she had was stories. — Six Word Story
The zig zag of life

The zig zag of life

lllnomadlll:

Bukowski | 40x50cm | Graphite on paper
If it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it.
Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it.

If you’re doing it for money or fame, don’t do it.

If you’re doing it because you want women in your bed,
 don’t do it.
If it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
 don’t do it.
If you have to wait for it to roar out of you, 
then wait patiently.
If it never does roar out of you,
 do something else.


Unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, 
unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don’t do it.
Unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don’t do it.
When it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen, It will do it by itself
and it will keep on doing it until you die 
or it dies in you.
There is no other way.


And there never was.
Charles Bukowski
Artprint available on FineArtAmerica
For more of my art visit me on:
Website | Facebook | Instagram | Pinterest

lllnomadlll:

Bukowski | 40x50cm | Graphite on paper

If it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it.

Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it.


If you’re doing it for money or fame, don’t do it.


If you’re doing it because you want women in your bed,
 don’t do it.

If it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
 don’t do it.

If you have to wait for it to roar out of you, 
then wait patiently.

If it never does roar out of you,
 do something else.



Unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, 

unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don’t do it.

Unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don’t do it.

When it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen, It will do it by itself

and it will keep on doing it until you die 

or it dies in you.

There is no other way.



And there never was.

Charles Bukowski

Artprint available on FineArtAmerica

For more of my art visit me on:

Website | Facebook | Instagram | Pinterest

Sleepless Mind

Far and gone in ceaseless black, 
my raft persists in constant grind, 
easing forth and ebbing back
above the ocean of my mind.
Rowing through the torrent’s might
- the wind enshrouds with whim and whirl- 
I cannot turn my thoughts to light,
astray along a timeless swirl.
The deepened black has blotched my soul,
drenched me with its solitude,
convinced me I have no control
in vacant void that is my mood.
Though night has spun me far adrift
- stolen me like man for war-
the water’s crest bestows a gift
that furrows ‘round my flailing oar:
rippled through my own reflection, 
a window glares from solemn sky;
half a moon with soft affection,
eager as a glowing eye.

Rampant waves will pass as ghosts,
mellowed to their gentle tone;
a shepherd in the sky; my host,
from luminescent light has grown.
Speckled stars dissuade the darkness
-glistening as a brightened sphere -
tranquil silence stills the abyss,
for a moment, my mind is clear.
Sun will rise and soon I’ll follow,
-blossoming like flowers through spring -
rising from that moonlit hollow,
as free as golden feathered wings.
The coloured vision comes and goes,
circles ‘round my weary eyes,
reminds me of the unkept rose
that flourished through the nettles’ cries.
All along my faint horizon
fleeting flickers light the way;
sleepless in my weathered raft,
my mind meanders through the day.