he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer
night, running the blade of the knife
under his fingernails, smiling, thinking
of all the letters he had received
telling him that
the way he lived and wrote about
that--
it had kept them going when
all seemed
truly
hopeless.
Question And Answer
Charles Bukowski
(1)
Poem topics: night, running, summer, room, knife, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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