In dim-lit bars where shadows play,
A poet finds his voice, raw and frayed.
With every drink, his demons sway,
In words of grit, his soul is laid.
Streets hum with tales of fleeting chance,
Where laughter mingles with despair.
Each verse a dance of circumstance,
His pen cuts through the city’s air.
The typewriter sings a rhythmic beat,
As midnight haunts his restless mind.
Through smoke and solitude, bittersweet,
A world of truth within he finds.
Though chaos reigns, a tender heart,
Beats beneath the rugged exterior.
In every line, a work of art,
The life of Bukowski, forever superior.