they said Bukowski was not a poet and that if he was he was a ******* awful one. but there's something to be said about a man who can **** ****** and come out of it with more respect for them than for the rest of the human population. there's honor to be given to a man who could drink all day and be more than what all the medical books said he could be. and there is credit to be given to the man who could unite the displaced with who he was as a human being and nothing more.
Bukowski may be one ******* horrible poet but he sure as hell knew more than we will ever be able to comprehend.
every time my candle flickers, i think to myself, maybe this is God, maybe this is God telling me that he is real and i am not alone but then the flame stills i go back to work and i think to myself, *i knew it was too good to be true
all these people writing about and looking for and craving so whole-heartedly love in the form of another person.
they don't know what it is exactly, just something that has to do with sharing labored breaths and not wearing any underwear to the movies.
these idiots think that love is what they need in order to be happy.
do they not already have love?
the sun shines and the trees grow and grass cuts their bare legs and lets them know that they are still alive. the earth is continuously apologizing by giving flowers with petals so soft you could mistake it for someone you once held in your arms.
love is not the answer- the aftermath is: destruction.
the only good and pure and completely true things in this world come from the ashes of the generations before them.
we have been born into love but mistaken tricked into thinking that destruction utter obliteration of the soul the mind the heart is not the answer.
love is not found in people but places and their hills and valleys and flowers and water that refreshes the eyes of every tired man.
love is found in the people that have been broken down.
only they are then able to look at what has been in front of them since before they were born, only they are able to see what the content will never know exists.
his **** is nothing spectacular but it's hard- for me- and it's smooth and soft and ready to be held tempted shown how to stargaze while the sun is still out. but he grabs my hand, pulls me up, up and away from the only part of him that will ever beat for me and my blistered hands and chapped lips.
"i don't love you"
and i know.
he lowers down and kisses my chest and ***** licks bites my **** and rubs my **** and that is all i want from him.
i used to think i was "that girl" who was destined to live a life that only amounted to **** buddies and loves that i drove away because who the hell wants to get close to a person a human born imperfect and therefore unable to promise to never leave you or never hurt you or never let you get too far into something that they know will never be capable of lasting as long as you need it to.
but here i am ****** up anxious irritable downright depressed but ready and prepared and on the way to not being such a ******* idiot who thinks another person another boy another mouth is going to make me happy.
how many times will i write variations of us that never get a happy ending? sometimes i think i am destined to forever remember you and that summer with that one kiss and the promise i made with no intentions of keeping it because i don't know how to love with two hands one heart fully unafraid. everything i write is about you and the different people i could see when i looked you in the eyes and let myself think embrace appreciate and enjoy every part of you without any sense of anxiety. and i wonder what we could be now that i have a way to cope and live without questioning everything except the ugly.
i wonder if one day i will be able to give our characters an ending where we can both by happy not broken or longing or forever regretful and every stack of cards doesn't mean more than it should.