I have developed this poetic alter ego when I write
As my words pour from my ears out onto my paper
I know I have it
I have what many long for
It comes to me and I have to let it out
No matter where I am or what I’m doing
I have not ****** as many without emotion,
Or drank my life away
But I feel some nights my writing reflects the young bukowski in me
As a girl I would read his poems in solitude, I’d soak in his ooey gooey words that reaked of stale cigarettes and *****
They gave me something no other writing has
True untainted feeling