I avoid the boys who worship Bukowski.

They're ones who see ***
As merely an act, a stage performance, a drug.
They use bitter words and drink bitter drinks
That they don't even enjoy.
They smoke cigarettes because they think they're James Dean.
They claim that they cannot escape their dead-end jobs and lives;
In reality, they don't want to. They relish in their misery.
After all, happy stories aren't worth writing about.
Nobody cares about your perfect life; they care about how you failed
Because it makes them feel better about their own despondency.

These boys live for the experience,
Their own Kerouac moments.
The writers obsessed with pain and suffering;
They don't even look for the beauty in beautiful things.
They're the ones who die by their own hands.
They close off their hearts to the love of women.
Women are objects. Women are things with holes
For speaking and for ***.

I am a woman with a heart and a mind and love to give,
And I shall be recognized as such.
In meeting a man the first question I ask is,
"Have you heard of Bukowski?"