To The Guy Who Writes To Charles Poem by iqra hassan

I know you write to Charles,
The same fucking Charles who died ages back
But still didn't die…
Who left his madness packed in his bloody poems,
I know you drink with him,
Not just the bourbon and the whiskey,
Also the cunning essence of the eyes of beloved,
You drink upon his blatant scribbling,
And you dwell upon his laugh-cloaked bleeding heart,
Where resides that blue bird,
dying to break out,
sick of hiding from whores and bartenders…
Oh you have a blue bird too don't you?
But it's not yours but hers,
Her blue bird which is blue for her,
Or you are her blue bird, blue for her,
I know you talk to that dead man Bukowski,
You envy his mad frenzy in which he refuses to watch the sky
Rather turns over the earth and laughs,
Andwhiskey flows from the engulfing words ofhis diary…
I know you see too much of the world,
The world which cares too less,
I read your poems you know,
I re-read them while sitting in blanket, numb with cold and pain,
Or the cold pain,
Not all the poets are cursed you see,
For some, others write too,
You see you are not like Charles…