Three Months Descending Like a Spider

Well
another one bites the dust.
My true love
my dream woman
my dearest
she left a week ago
and it was the damnedest thing.
Ten minutes after she took off
I started hanging pictures
rearranging the furniture
doing the dishes that had been sitting for days.
It's always the same
a woman leaves
and I've got no other choice
but to get my shit together.
And she left at just the right time too.
My first book has been registered with the U.S. Library of Congress
so that gives me three months
three months until
my little ship sails into the sea
like all those writers that came before me.
But before I ever wrote
a poem or a short story
I sat down at the typewriter
and punched out a complete novel.
A girlfriend turned me onto
ole' Bukowski
and his first novel, 'Post Office'.
That book lit a spark in my head
that first spark
that idea
that I had my own story to tell.
All those wonderfully, beautiful, hideous, moments
from that summer of working in that crypt called a nursing home
and playing out in the wildest band in town.
The novel is complete
done
written
on typed pages from the typewriter
and chicken scratched, hand-written pages in a notebook.
The woman is gone
but I'm still here
with three months to get that novel typed up
on this computer
and into the hands of a publisher.
I ain't fucking around here.
The words are there
the story has been written
and now
now it's time to hit these keys
and show everybody
what my insides look like.

But then again,

I'll probably just do drugs

smoke cigarettes 

and write shit like this

instead.