Dear Bukowski
were you depressed?
or did the monotonous repetition of your everyday struggles with the stupidity of the people around you just always end with a poem?
Did you smile when you weren't drunk?
Were you as invincible as your writing makes you seem?
I like you a lot
That makes me no different to the people you complained about all day but it's fine
You'd probably not care what I said to you
Just stare at my *** and my lips
Daydream about ******* me
and then write a poem about me