In smoky bars and dim-lit rooms,
He found his solace, his muse,
Amongst the broken and the bruised,
His words, raw and unrefined, amused.
Whiskey flowing, thoughts unchained,
In the underbelly of life, he remained,
A poet’s heart with a rebel’s soul,
Writing tales of survival, taking its toll.
Nights of despair, mornings of hope,
Searching for meaning in the lines he wrote,
A voice for the outcasts, the lost,
Capturing lifeâs essence, no matter the cost.
Through the chaos, he found his peace,
In the simple, the mundane, a masterpiece,
Charles Bukowski, a life untamed,
In every verse, his legacy claimed.