don't try

 
don't try...

I was thinking today,
about an interview with Bukowski
where they asked him...
what made him a great writer
and he pointed to the drink in his hand

then I started thinking about art
Andy Warhol knew the key...
to make it more than just plain old paint
he had to piss on the picture

what if my words are just words
without the drugs and alcohol?
I didn't even have to try before
the poetry just sprang from me
the drugs released the ideas
and freed them with passion

perhaps with an intensity
I don't possess on my own
they allowed me to piss on the page
creating art

what if there is no art...
without pain and suffering
what if it's just dull...
words with no imagination?

Bukowski had no ideas of grandeur
he knew it was the alcohol...
that released a brilliance
perhaps not even his own
instead a communal thought of genius

I knew the poetry wasn't mine
I was allowed into...
the sacred grounds of creation
by paying a toll

suffering my mentor
pain my palette
oxidized thought creating art
pissed on by the gods