In the smoky haze of the dim-lit bar,
A poet scribbles words like scars,
His life a tapestry of pain and strife,
Carved deep into the marrow of his life.
Through city streets and alleys dark,
He roamed with fire, a wild spark,
With whiskey breath and a gambler’s hand,
He penned the tales of a restless land.
In every verse, a piece of soul,
A heart thatâs broken, yet whole,
He wrote of women, wine, and woe,
Of nights where moonlight refused to glow.
Charles Bukowski, the bard of despair,
Found beauty in the broken, everywhere,
His words, a mirror to the human plight,
A lighthouse in the endless night.