there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

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More from Charles Bukowski

unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

Overhead my spirit flies
Upon the ground and crimson skies
Whispering winds in moonlit woods
A totem oak once golden stood.

Overhead My Spirit Flies