By Charles Bukowski
(2002)
the uselessness of the word is evident.
I would like to make this piece of paper shrink and dance and laugh
but the keys just strike it harmlessly
and we settle for just a fraction of the whole.
this incompleteness is all we have:
we write the same things over and over and over again.
we are all fools, driven.
the uselessness of the word is evident.
writers can only pretend well, others not so
yet none of us come near
none of us even close
sitting at these machines
behooved to live out our indecent profession.