I want to learn from the poet Charles Bukowski,
A man among men; with a bottle in hand,
a literate womanizer without any plan.
For he writes of growing old and the loss of love,
and his lonely words project his loss.
For a womanizer is the truest love,
one who wishes to love but is so afraid,
resorting to getting occasionally laid.
So I wanted to learn how to love, and lie; while smoking a cigarette,
and holding a bottle of wine,
but I don't want to be Mr. Bukowski,
for I wish to have love and lost,
but not at my vanities cost.

When I write of love,
When I speak of love,
it is like, I was blessed,
from above.
For I have had hardships,
and more one-sided flips,
than contact, with your lips.
It is like an apple in a tree,
which is just out of reach,
I can see it with me,
just as sweet as a peach.
But until I can climb to the tallest branch,
I must I must grab hold of the bark,
and with each step, my wound will stanch,
and I will pull myself from the dark.

You're a stupid ******* ****,
if I truly must be blunt.
The epitome of ****,
you put me in a fit.
A heartbreaking little *****,
I'd love to find you in a ditch.
You can go get ******,
or preferably self-destruct.
I love you.

You are clouds of mustard gas,
and I just released an exasperated gasp,
fill my lungs with this air,
choke me as if you don't care.
Now I'm dead, on the floor,
you dissipate and I see you know more.
Is this how it ends with a death like this?
I've wet myself and the room smells like ****.
When they find me it will be a sight to see,
laying on the floor,
no where to flee,
but I do not care anymore,
as my soul is gone from me.
So let us realize how I died,
because of the things I spied,
your love choking my lungs,
when I saw you swapping tongues.
But now, it is not my place to think,
instead I remember your every kink,
and despite my cold dead body causing a stink,
you still find a way to crush my soul,
as it tries to leave the room,
you block every escape,
making this my tomb,
you *****, you *****, you snake,
can you not see everything you take?
I am lifeless, dead and gone,
blown up from your bomb,
but now it's done and you move on,
but I am dead from your con.
So I move on.

We live life with great names,
but perish in glory's flames,
hopes fill our hearts that we will be remembered,
And that our names not be slandered.
Alas life has a way of bringing us to ground,
taking our dreams and turning them around,
placing roadblocks in our way,
creating tolls we cannot pay.
We must find a way to break on through,
whether sneak, lie to get on by,
eventually we will get caught by the toll crew,
And it will be our time to die.

Early morning mist is floating around,
with the hawks flying high in the sky,
I sit alone without a sound,
as I watch and animal about to die.
Swift like lightning a hawk flew down,
gripping a rat by the spine,
as the red began to replace the brown,
I take this death as a sign.
Here I sit alone and confused,
looking into the future of my demise,
death by hawks within due to strife.
My opportunities I abused,
constantly taking my eyes off the prize,
with my back protruding a knife,
a hawk came down and stole my life,
I refused to look into the skies,
and due to my confidence misuse,
from this life I was excused.

Alexander the Great is dead,
so is Ghandi,
Napoleon,
JFK,
and a good few other... billion.
I will die too someday,
hopefully not tomorrow,
hopefully not today
But... maybe.
We are not gods,
But we like to act it,
rulers and slaves,
all eat, sleep, die and ****.
In all of our glory,
we are all the same,
hoping someone will retell our story,
and that it is not too lame.
But in the end,
whether we die or end up in some eighth grade history book,
we die,
and worms eat us,
like animals... no, not like,
Are.

Release me from this sick reprieve,
let me submit to myself,
like the black sheep,
I am not meant to be.
Let me drown myself in envy,
allow me to erupt with hate,
let go and have me fall into myself,
which is wrought with darkness.
I do not admit the black of my free will,
nor do I shut it out,
but for me there is no magic light pill,
I just must live through this light drought.

The ocean is a perfect metaphor,
alone, alive, unhappy, even content,
it almost feel's like that is what it's for,
but no-one can tell what I really meant.
Gently flowing onto a bay,
will make one think of a soothing scene,
but that is not what I am trying to say,
and that is what gives poetry its glowing gleam.
I can describe the hurt with waves,
or hate with a tsunami,
maybe the calmness within the caves,
as the ocean will will define me.

Give me that piercing,
or that tat,
just make sure,
I don't look fat.
Let me puke a fountain like Niagara Falls,
just so I can fit in within these halls.
If I get a disapproving look,
it feels like a thousand knives stabbing me,
let me remain as a closed book,
so I can pique an interest in thee.
I am not me, what can I be?
I will not show you,
for fear of you mocking my plea.
So let me live my life so cold,
without finding myself as I grow old,
just to gain your appreciation,
while unknowingly causing self-deprivation.

Here I am again,
drunk, alone, tired...
I cannot sleep,
although not due to lack of effort.
Thoughts running through my head,
skipping over my qualms,
about how much I love you,
enough to make me have sweaty palms.
Making me think of the dumb cheesy poems,
which I would write with love in my heart,
because you cause such joy for me,
but you are so far away,
I live life in solitude,
keeping the ****** at bay.
But it isn't that which tears me apart,
because I could **** anyone...
it is because of the setting sun I see ahead,
while you see the rising sun.

With my body decomposing,
and life ebbing away,
will I be forgotten?
lost in life's sway.
Who will be there to identify my body,
will someone shed tears of sadness,
at what was lost which I embodied.
Or will there be those who stand and smile,
knowing I am finally gone,
a good riddance that I breathed my last,
as I am everything which is wrong.
Alas, could it come to,
my name being lost,
left to die at an unmarked grave,
forgotten before rotten.

The truth is...
I hate my poetry,
it weighs on me like a seven ton anvil.
Laughing and shouting out,
about my faults and doubts,
which stand tall before me.
But I am to vain,
to remove them from sight,
as I want everyone to see the rain.
The drought that is within,
can only be cured,
by the peeling of my old dead skin.
So to write it all out,
is to scrape it all off,
until it is as tall as a skyscraper.
As I keep writing the poems,
the building will sway,
until it will finally give away.
I will be crushed beneath the dust,
and no one will question the rust.
For they could see,
it tilt and fall,
until it crushed me,
under my self-righteous gall.

I cannot get anything down.
I squeeze and suffocate,
choke the words out,
waterboarded with books,
until there is some water in this ******* drought.
Blame it for the lack of ingenuity,
for the life-long ambiguity,
how I cannot get my message out,
no matter how much I scream and shout.
The more I write the brighter I burn,
but like a fire I go out,
forgetting everything that I learn,
lost in the smoldering embers of doubt.

How can I prove to you that I am yours,
In this monogamous love has started mind wars.
You believe that I can not hold your heart,
But to me your mind is sophisticated art.
The feelings which course through your soul have only intrigued me,
I can only hope you will understand my plea:
Of when I look at you smile it is as if there is a race inside my veins,
And I can't run from the feelings because it is as if I am in chains.
Your eyes make me drown as if I am diving into a pool of thought,
I love you too much to realize this is all part of your plot.
To have me love you and care forever,
You really are quite clever.
Caring and loving me with all that you can,
It is as if this was always your plan.
To capture my heart, body and mind,
And in doing so you have made me blind.
Being without you is like a candy without sugar,
and I'm just a big kid.

Suicide to save their pride is what they said when they lied.
How it was to save face to not appear as a disgrace.
Sadly their claims hold no base when you see their life lost pace.
Instead they lived with fears and covered their face with tears.
As we call them selfish and a coward we do not see how they became overpowered.
While we live with the reluctant truth that things are different from our youth.
Life is dark and full of lies and selfish people ignoring our cries.
And when some try to reach out a hand they are reluctant to show they cannot stand.
It is not one person's fault, instead it is societies halt.
The stoppage of love and empathy which has discriminated sympathy and the birth of apathy.
So let us recognize the selfish few who cannot reach out to you.
Go to them and show them love because it is what they need from above.

The sun goes down every day,
slowly taking its time,
everyday it is the same way,
living like this should be a crime.
Everything around me is at a standstill,
like Atlantis, abandoned and desolate,
I stand alone atop this hill,
staring down upon that hell,
upon my failure I dwell.
Thinking of how I will never escape,
doomed to live out life in this prison,
my heart has gone and flown away,
while I will stay until I'm old and gray.

For what it's worth,
I love you,
yet you are the fish that will feed my soul,
and I only have a spear.
So here I am in between a rock and a hard place,
as I debate on whether to capture you just for me?
Or will I be generous and let you be free..?
In the end, you swim away,
so I will stay,
and keep on fishing.

Rich and lavish, everyone covets them,
wanting makes us selfish, so we choose to condemn,
acting as if the high life is wrong,
and yet we admire it in every song,
but the glittering gold of self-sufficiency,
while believing due to their superb efficiency,
has given the rich a false sense of superiority,
while distilling on us a feeling of inferiority.

So how do we fight back against the man?
We try to take everything we can.
"He doesn't need it! He has so much!"
is what we will shout on a fateful march,
but our words fall upon deaf ears,
as the ones who should listen,
are the ones distilling our fears.

We will all live and die,
chasing after those fireflies,
like our dreams illuminating in the night,
only to disappear with flight.
As we reach and ****** and miss,
stumble until the ground we kiss,
And some quit and go back home,
but others hearts are made of stone.
While the others feel the pain of failure,
the driven ones push on with valor,
but soon daylight comes and the sun will rise,
and then we can count our fireflies.

I want to believe it's true,
but your words drip with guilt like dew falling from a blade of grass,
falling gently enough to notice,
but not to take note.
There are so many flaws within your lies,
it's something of you, I have come to despise.
Must I relinquish and undermine my original sense of being,
or continue with this misrepresented agreeing.

Caught,
like a fish,
cut the cord,
or my throat.
Release me into the wild,
or be wild,
and spill my guts out.

To please and appease,
the coming storms breeze,
we shackle ourselves to the ground,
and prepare for the pound.
We do not stand before the storm,
or leave to fight this outrageous norm,
instead we sit and take the hit,
and watch as our throats are slit.
What is the point of life without glory,
or the opportunity to create our story,
we are subdued by the never-ending rain,
and with it comes immense pain.
But if we were to just grab an umbrella,
and continue writing our story,
yes our pages may get wet,
but what is life, without breaking a sweat?

Squeezing it out,
like the soul from my heart,
it is just unhealthy,
without a proper start.
I must find motivation,
along with an ideal,
get the proper devotion,
to write what I feel.
And like all harassed works of art,
the critics will just tear it a part,
although I'd rather be stabbed than seen as harmless,
I still prefer that my art is not harmless.
Such is life to have no desires,
but I would rather be the spark to light a thousand fires.

Me sitting here,
you sitting there,
feelings between us of despair.
Awkward eye contact,
with impending doom,
tensions rise in the room.
You stand up,
I stay seated,
things are starting to get heated...
Then you stop and just walk away,
and now I must choose whether to stay,
I stay.

Lost are we,
in this infinite abyss.
An idea in our heads,
of what is pure bliss.
Lost are we,
in this complex maze,
losing ourselves,
just to feel that praise.
Lost are we,
doing what we are told,
reaching for that goal,
until we turn cold.
Lost are we,
as we die here all alone,
dreams are forgotten,
and never written in stone.

Your presence is like the wind,
I'll feel your wispy hands running through my hair.
Your presence is like the wind,
Slowly causing weather and wear.
Your presence is like the wind,
I'm always looking, but you're never there.

My inner strength and constant fight,
does not stem from some inner might,
it comes from my inner bite,
and the depreciation of those around me.
Through my mental analysis,
I separate others through a dialysis,
and create my own psychoanalysis,
and it boosts my confidence by a degree.
I critique their brain, their clothes and their hair,
what I see in them is not fair,
but without knowing them I cannot care,
and that is how it will always be.
But I am not alone in the world of judge,
it is as if inside of me there is a grudge,
seeing others merely feels like a trudge,
and many others agree.

My words pour out,
like a gutter reaching its breaking point,
splashing down and creating quite a mess no doubt.
But everything else is wet from rain so it is not seen,
The next day everything is clear as day,
The gutter now has an awkward lean,
And the slightest wind can cause it to sway.

I'm afraid to get old like you,
watching you die has had its effect,
becoming incoherent and without a clue,
living life as if a defect.
You once were so young,
so powerful,
so strong.
Now you lay in bed,
needles in your arms,
everything flying over your head,
thinking you may as well be dead.
I don't want to become old like you.

When I am feeling alone, I walk in the grass,
I bear the wind as it blows, and watch time pass.
I remember the years which have left you and I,
and how we never had a proper goodbye.
We always spoke of how we'd stay friends,
now I see things through a corrective lens,
while we would laugh about simple little things,
I didn't realize how inhibited were my wings,
How you would make me feel like a king,
while secretly clipping my wing.
Waiting for me to step out of our nest,
attempt to fly, but falling at best.
So like unlike a bird which I strove to be,
I learned to use my feet, and chose to flee,
for while you hoped to hold on for long,
I soon found out,
I couldn't wait to be gone.

Lie to me and say you love me,
tell me how I fill your heart,
how I was the one to give it a kick-start
Lie to me and say you love me,
tell me how I saved your soul,
how I set fire to the coal.
Lie to me and say that you love me,
even when I was far away,
you would never wander and play.
Lie to me and say that you love me,
tell me that I make your heart ache,
as you try to hide your mistake.

Let us walk on these streets of gold,
with a Cadillac and Ferrari on the side,
no one dares to be as bold,
as those who show their money with pride.
Keep walking down the way,
until the ground turns gray,
here we find the place of life,
cut apart with a knife.
The attitudes are dim,
the people are looking slim,
for they must continue on,
working on a lawn until they are long gone.
For they visit the golden street,
not to live, but to weep,
as they work to eat,
payed with lies and deceit.
Do we notice?
Do we care?
As their children lie naked and bare.
Do we help them?
Do we feed them?
Or do we just send a prayer?

The artistic industry devours us alive,
as it feeds off our drive to strive.
And as we mix our blood sweat and tears,
it merely grows bigger,
and plays off our fears.
But we do not quit the feeding,
as we cut ourselves wide open,
with our securities so misleading,
as we find ourselves surviving like pigs.
Eating up whatever we can get,
until we find ourselves trapped again,
fallen into someones debt,
while living in this pen.

Oh how I fight,
so that my heart is always with you,
with the temptation my chest tight,
but I always will hold true.
As the thoughtless lustful bodies fill my eyes,
attempting to distract me with an ****** twist,
I recognize they will be my demise,
and create an opportunity which will be missed.
Because my dear, you are but a miracle,
carefully crafted by what one could only assume to be a god,
our love is almost satirical,
causing every potential disaster to appear as only a broad.
With my heart trapped in your hands,
it is slave to your hearts demands.

Do not force me to believe,
to get down on my knees,
it will only cause me to leave,
respect my views please,
and maybe then I will appease.
For I am the lone wolf,
living without his pack,
tossed away like a sheep which is black,
because they believed I fell of track.
Distant and alone I have grown,
living this life which they have sewn,
so do not expect me to live this life,
after what I have seen,
after all of the strife.
Just hold my hand and lead me away,
do not pull, do not play.
Just give me direction and I will follow,
choosing my way,
hoping to fill what's hollow.
And if I cannot believe what you teach,
I will move on with my life,
and let you still preach.
But if you continue you to spout,
about how I am a failure,
like a crop in a drought.
Then I will be forced to fight back alone,
breaking you down, turning over every stone.
So I beg of thee just trust me,
to make my decision based on what I agree,
and if I find love within your words,
then I will go high,
taking flight with these birds.

It's funny how after a drink or few,
we can talk about everything,
from the polarization of political parties,
to love, life and the pursuit of happiness.
While the next day all we can think,
is how to get rid of this ******* headache.

Look at us,
Thinking we are a sophisticate,
so intricate,
and yet we ***** about what we have not anticipated.
Look at the last person you saw,
picking out their every flaw,
noticing how they are a *******,
yet we are not a part of it.
They have lives which differ from ours,
we are the extras in their hours,
they do not care for you,
just as you do not care too.
We eat the same nutrients,
read the same rudiments,
believe we are better,
because of our new sweater.
What we do not see,
is we all have a plea,
we watch the same ****,
have times to mourn,
act as judge and jury,
to everyone else's storm.
You are a god,
in your own right,
you deserve to be awed,
because you fight the good fight.
Yet when anything falls,
you look around and blame the walls,
the one's which restrict and keep you from joy,
the one's you constructed,
behind this foolish ploy.
So grow the **** up,
and recognize your faults,
or grow on up,
and dance alone in this waltz.

There he was, just a boy, sitt'in by the street,
impressionable and young, innocent through and through,
up comes a *****, giving him a smile that was sweet,
crooked teeth, coked up nose and spitting a loogie of chew,
she looked at him and impressed a world he never knew.
"Hey there boy, you're looking bored, happen to got a dollar?
I swear, you got enough and I'm gonna make you hollar!"

The boy stared at the boisterous cleavage which she presented,
as he didn't realize the trouble she fermented,
he stood up tall and looked her in the eye,
and replied to her with his voice so wry,
"Now listen up ***** and listen well,
I won't pay a dollar until I prove it isn't hell!
But if you can ****, and ****, well then time will tell..."
The boy had no idea what he had said,
but he wanted to be like his father who was now dead.
The ***** looked down in utter shock,
but this didn't stop her from making money from ****,
she taught the boy her every move,
which in the future he would learn to improve.

When it was done that young man had changed,
his mental capacity had re-arranged,
you see, in his life he had learned so many things,
about violence, *** and all the drug kings,
people would blame it upon the violent/minority gene
but what can you expect, when someone is just thirteen?

The beauty of Audrey Hepburn would appear to have no parallel,
With luscious eyes and soft white skin as smooth as caramel,
From the class, and the elegance, that so few have,
Combined with the innocence of a newborn calve,
La femme parfaite,
society may say.
Although she does not make me laugh, love and stand above,
Because Audrey pales in comparison to my love.

You were stolen from me,
from under my nose,
I was not even looking,
I deserve it I suppose.
To think that I took you for granted,
having you by my side,
I used you as a source,
of my undeserved pride.
Now I have traveled to see you again,
and you lay next to me,
and I am free from this pain,
but to lose you soon,
would be blasphemy.
I will cut out the throat of any who come,
expecting to steal what I have won,
your heart is mine and I will keep it that way,
and with this love, your pain will allay.

I just want you happy,
with a smile on your face,
a golden gleam in your eye,
and your smile filled with grace.
I just want you to love,
feel the joy explode out,
warming all who surround you,
shocking them like an untimely shout.
Alas, you cannot always get what you want,
and with me here,
you will not find that hidden ecstasy,
that much is clear.
With me by your side,
you will find yourself lost,
warm in your heart,
but surrounded by frost.
My love, my life, my darling,
take that final step with me,
escape from this jail,
grow your wings and fly free...


And when we are lost in the darkened sky,
and you begin to question why?
I will be there by your side,
waiting for you to become my bride.

There is a shadow over my shoulder,
which follows me around.
I did not invite it,
nor will I fight it,
for it does not make a sound.
But even in the night,
when everything is out of sight,
I can feel it on my back.
with a whisper in my ear,
it instills fear,
of what I will never do.
The failures of life,
the constant strife,
which I face everyday.
I continue to walk,
as the shadow will stalk,
following like a tiger and prey.

You walk away as I stand staring,
and I feel a pain which I am not accustomed to.
finally I turn around to never look back,
I see you turn, but I do not see you.

It is frustrating,
truly infuriating,
how I just cannot seem to get it right.
Every night,
I write words down,
and watch them turn to ****.
I write of love,
and hate,
or neither...
I write and write and write,
until I take a mental breather,
only to realize my brain has lost its light,
covered in mold that is its blight.
And I have these feelings in my heart,
which threaten to tear me apart,
and no matter what I do,
I cannot get it through,
of how I am in love with you,
or how I grew,
to hate that view....
And other ****.

The euphoric feeling of my dreams slipping through my grasp,
to light headed dreams from time wasted,
insatiable hunger which eats relationships alive,
followed by a deep sleep to forget all my pains.
When I reach for that next hit,
that next wake-up punch in the face,
digging myself into this deep pit,
starting out fast, with no pace.
Soon this drug fueled fixation will me a dream,
a forgotten memory of desire and doubt,
something that died when it hit my blood stream,
drowned in a high created by this drug drought.
Alas, this is not how my life is meant to be,
with convictions and morals which were clear,
I was a man who was meant to be free,
now I am a man, owned by fear, for the sake of cheer.

My words dribble, no, pool out,
as if I just had a shot of novacane,
and I have been numbed of all feeling.
But I know, this numbness will soon escape me,
and I will feel this hole I chewed through my lips,
and I will see the blood I spat on your face.

We were once like lightning and thunder,
explosive and fearsome,
creating such fire.
But like all good storms we came to an end,
and I fear that the rain has come to a drizzle,
and I not longer have a spark to lend,
so now our shock is merely a fizzle.

Lukewarm love,
I'll have a cup of it, to start my morning.
I will not quit, I have done my mourning.
Our love is like leftover tea, putting a bad taste in my mouth
It's not worth being free, when leaving it would mean heading south.
To the hell with my life, which means being alone,
It's better to have a wife, and live life as a drone.
Keeping up with all the tricks, just to keep them content,
You'll always get your kicks, hoping your love will augment.
So we can live our time, pretending to be happy,
Living life as a mime, until we become too snappy.
But I'll have a cup of lukewarm love,
I guess I'm in love... Sort of?

You are so stupid,
you conform to every group,
letting your opinions be molded like clay,
by the power play within these coups.
Create a coup within the coups,
called thinking outside the box,
use your head and lead the others,
for they are lost themselves,
do not stand blind among them,
walking towards hell.