Immerse me in your misery,
let your scars become mine,
and make my soul decay

Of the world's most handsome poetry
Of the champagne of the tongue
The rapt lovers of cursive stroke
And the sweetest, most decadent paper caress

I like the cheap beer remarks and the box wine conjunctions
The whorish, scribbled word on the back of café napkins
The bitter inky graze and the rancid graphite touch

Some days
I have drowned in a sea of elaborately dressed words
With less intent than proud showmanship

And most days
I’d rather float on a Dead Sea of salty wit

Sour thoughts, broken glass and
A thin veil of cigarette smoke

"I have no regrets" she whispered
"Pardon?" his eyes met hers
"Nothing" she said, intertwining her fingers

Upon the pages of my poetry books,
you might circle your favourite phrase
or leave your bookmark in the page

Drawing one last puff of your final cigarette,
you might say "I swear this is my last"
and then you might do what you're hoping to,
and set off for another pack

And when you say "babe" or "baby",
I might reply with a smart retort
and then I'll walk away

And some days you'll make a dumb remark
we might fight and I'll curse your name
and other days, you'll smile and wink
and it'll be okay

I hate it when I hear,
"Depression means you hate yourself"

I think,
"You shut your ******* mouth"

Let me tell you why:

I'm apathetic towards myself,
I think I'm alright, I'm quite okay
I'm not perfect

But the questions which haunt me
taunt me, tear at my insides,
bring me down

It's a daily dose of helplessness
A jolt of shakes, half an hour long
Can't concentrate to save my life,
and even then I couldn't give a ****

I'm not clueless to the things around me
I'm wrapped up in them
they consume me

I think about the deaths,
the murders, the rapes,
the wars, the addictions,
the illnesses, the schemes,
the scams, the
lack of compassion

And death

I think about death a lot

I'm not scared to die
or be insignificant

I'm scared to think of
my family's skin and bones
in a hole in the ground
Of my best friends' cries
and smiles
forgotten
and their dreams let down

I don't hate myself

I'm scared to be alive
because it means I know what will be lost
by the hand of inhumanity
and the Grim Reaper's bony grip

I don't have a tragedy
merely a mind that's gone to hell
far before its time

And then I think,
"maybe that's why Bukowski drank"
because he had a quick tongue
but all poets need a story

Tall, with chestnut hair and a native face
Tiny, with white blonde strands and Polish features

From the same womb,
down different paths

Their voices hoarse with cries of anger,
Yells, screams and miscommunications

"Go home!" she shrieks
"And you wonder why I'd rather be alone!" she yells

Everyone screams,
"Don't you know about compassion?!"