Bukowski says poetry is not for the faint of heart. I feel a small ache as I turn another of his pages. What have I been neglecting? Myself, the words, the reality? The reality which the words showed me. Too much for a growing girl, growing in swirls, rather than up, just crazy. Same road again, almost every morning, anxiety. Awkward again, sick and angry boy. He breaks silence with ****** functions and doesn't like to repeat himself.
Okay, Bukowski, you're right.
Poetry is not for the faint of heart.
he art, she art, it will tear you apart... if you let it.