I might as well be a drunken fool
it’s in my bloodline.
My father was one.

A Charles Bukowski wannabe.
I dwell in my own suffocating misery
until I pass out, falling to my knees.

Head in my hands,
screeching to the sky:
Why—why—why?
Why me?

Snarling at many,
letting only a select few
get close.

I let them in only to cosplay
their perfect host.

Searching for love
and despising it the most.