You are not Charles Bukowski.
You are not Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
And neither am I.
And I never will be.
I will never sit in a ****** apartment
Eating a candy bar and drinking
But it would be great if I could

But maybe in trying not to be them
I become like them.
After all, I’ve had drug habits
And I’ve had a couple drinks before
Noon. A couple days in a row.
For a couple years.
I’ve had affairs in bathrooms and beds
And cars and club booths.
And I hate writing on computers.

Dear god, have I shrunk this low?
The writing’s good and it gets published
But I don’t sleep and I don’t eat.
I drink too much
I feel weak
Jesus ****, what have I become?