I am not your Bukowski
I am not the Picasso of words
I am not the DaVinci of euphemisms
I will never be remembered
I am not beautiful
My insides are not pure
I am tainted blackened filth
Begging for attention or pity
Nothing goes my way
I am a failure
Bur I will do nothing to change
Nor tell another
I want to die
I know I say it a lot
But I don't feel that it's fine that some more grateful of their gift
Take their last breath tonight
While I, thoughts of suicide, running amok in my fragile mind
Take everything for granted and give back nothing
Nothing but whines and complaints and harshness
I am not Bukowski
I am not Jesus Christ
I am I