I always resented all the years, the hours, the

minutes I gave them as a working stiff, it

actually hurt my head, my insides, it made me

dizzy and a bit crazy - I couldn’t understand the 

murdering of my years

yet my fellow workers gave no signs of

agony, many of them even seemed satisfied, and

seeing them that way drove me almost as crazy as

the dull and senseless work.

the workers submitted.

the work pounded them to nothingness, they were

scooped-out and thrown away.

I resented each minute, every minute as it was

mutilated

and nothing relieved the monotony.

I considered suicide.

I drank away my few leisure hours.

I worked for decades.

I lived with the worst kind of women, they killed what

the job failed to kill.

I knew that I was dying.

something in me said, go ahead, die, sleep, become as

them, accept.

then something else in me said, no, save the tiniest

bit.

it needn’t be much, just a spark.

a spark can set a whole forest on

fire.

just a spark.

save it.

I think I did.

I’m glad I did. 

what a lucky god damned

thing.

- Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poems