It's never quite right, he said, the way people look, <br />the way the music sounds, the way the words are <br />written. <br />It's never quite right, he said, all the things we are <br />taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we <br />die, all the lives we live, <br />they are never quite right, <br />they are hardly close to right, <br />these lives we live <br />one after the other, <br />piled there as history, <br />the waste of the species, <br />the crushing of the light and the way, <br />it's not quite right, <br />it's hardly right at all <br />he said. <br /> <br />don't I know it? I <br />answered. <br /> <br />I walked away from the mirror. <br />it was morning, it was afternoon, it was <br />night <br /> <br />nothing changed <br />it was locked in place. <br />something flashed, something broke, something <br />remained. <br /> <br />I walked down the stairway and <br />into it. <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Tom<br /><br />Charles Bukowski<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cut-while-shaving/
