In smoky bars and shadowed streets,
He found his muse in pain and strife.
Through every bottle, every beat,
He carved his words, he lived his life.

The city’s whispers, harsh and cold,
Became the canvas for his art.
Through tales of sorrow, tales of gold,
He poured his raw, unfiltered heart.

Amidst the chaos, love and loss,
He penned the truths few dared to speak.
With every line, he bore the cross,
Of human frailty, bold yet meek.

Though time has passed, his echoes stay,
A testament to nights and days.
In every verse, in every way,
Charles Bukowski’s life still plays.