much too much of

As The Poems Go
by Charles Bukowski

as the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you've created very
little.
it comes down to the rain, the sunlight,
the traffic, the nights and the days of the
years, the faces.
leaving this will be easier than living
it, typing one more line now as
a man plays a piano through the radio,
the best writers have said very
little
and the worst,
far too much.

-

is there always gonna be a too much in everything, a cap you burst such that it is no longer entre no longer appetising, is it possible that even roses may mellow and be meagre and odious, that in a buffet spread all that is served is excess, and much too much, much too much, creeps covers clouds congeals and it is all bloat?