Dear Bukowski,
I can imagine my embellished rupturing fondest of your works makes you feel sludged with rancor. But I do assure that my adoration only spawns from your purity of disdain and fervor. All things rise together in epic sanctimonious swells. You are not the midwife to poetry nor is poetry the bolstering mother of your life. You are as impenetrably intertwined as the first fickle breath of life writes the verse to our poetic life. While this is true, you acknowledge the infallible doom that consumes our world as people search for definitive answers. As you tackle the affronts of our world you embodied your poetic sinew accepting the fact the world could readily eradicate you with slight cadence alteration of the wind. Bukowski I do not grovel to you, but I will endlessly cherish your paper encased testaments of life. You aren't afraid of painting the inner creasings of your mind you are the midwife and the executioner you are poetry you are life.

In a world of gorged overweening wobbleston folk, it can be difficult to allow yourself the reprieve of natural existence. We all arise in the same cadence and our attrition follows in similar suit. Release yourself into the infallible manor of mystery and truth. Escape the life of perpetuating death, by finding solace within yourself.
There is nothing that needs cumbersome labor, let your body rise in the manner of a child. Accept the world and free your shackles of desolation.

The bold and delicate trees bow down beckoning me.
We are all in one bundled in a grand emporium prolific cornucopia.
My pudgy feet make acquaintance with your smooth clay ground.
The understory of shrubbery demure and quaint basking in the sun.
We are all in one.
The inhabitants below the ground tunneling and supplementing your crust with nutrients whilst my furled brows arch up towards the halcyon sky.
I can't pin a denotation of what life is, but I can utter a word that resonates in my purest of minds.
Connect.
Only connect, and all will be fine.

I am a vessel, a vessel of churning vomitous nectar, I'm seating inside another vessel of metal and plush.
Behind me is several other sandwiched vessel creations.
The man stationed behind me..I wonder if he's a ******? My mind implores endlessly trying to separate from this present vessled state. He dips his pinky into his nostril fishing for a crusty mucus nugget.
That nostril of his connected to his flesh adorned vessel, I wonder if it has felt love?
I have ruled out the thought of him being a ******, a man confident enough to excavate his nostrils in broad day light has surely had ***. But has this furrowed brow vessel of a man felt love?
Have I felt love?
The mechanic vessels blare on their horns. Green light. We all move in fluid motion again. A sea of mindless hopeless vessels.

For the girls that were requested to send **** photos at the tender age of 12.
For the girls that have been spoon fed a false reality of what love is.
For the girls like you, and for the girl that is me.
Don't let their poison taint your iridescent waters.
They have fallen victim to the filthy hands buried beneath the glaring screens of falsified truth, pulling them under into a sad existence.
The chanting voices of their peers solidifying their soiled mind.
You don't need to join them in this existence you don't revolve around grime you are a gleaming star on your own.
They will attempt to groom you, and if you have no healthy version of love to compare this against, you become ensnared in their trap.
You my dear, are everything. Your skin embellished with the wonders of life just as the silken sky shines under the veil of night.
I know it is hard, but you must learn to love yourself. Your mind so brilliant should not be ashamed. Here you are utterly human.  With this acceptance you become invincible to the malicious maw of our world continually trying to consume you.
They will call you stuck up, *****, along with numerous other incendiary names. This won't faze you, you love yourself.
It takes time though to place yourself back on the pedestal where you belong.
The grating words of these boys will likely whittle you down to the victim they can feast on.
You may begin to wear your encounters of ****** harassment as a pendant of pride, to disguise your disheveled and crippled insides.
It happens as you lay in bed and realize how barren you are, this body you are tucked in is no longer yours.
The men have feverishly devoured every ounce of you. who are you now, but the next mans fetish or toy?
You must reclaim what is yours, I am not merely lifeless limbs for you to sink your teeth into. Here I am sinew and brimming beauty I am woman and you will respect me.

What an exquisite mess we are tangled in sheets..our bodies together the midwives of all things magical. Where our bodies connect waterfalls and enchanted forests come to life... Or so I think. Upon this box spring stage, I forget that you are human. Who is this man who's body drapes over me pouring his music and luster into my being. Who are you? Why do I say I love you? Love is the only magic I've yet to see manifest in this life, I guess it's just ***.

Heathens gyrating and rhythmically thrusting their pelvis through the streams of sleepwalking flesh.
I suppose if I followed in suit with this I could be enchanted with some ****** liberation.
The thing is buried in the back of my cheery playground mind remains a lonesome tree swing chirping the romanticized idea of a genuine love.
One that would cleanse me of my misery and caustic taste in my mouth.
People often ask me why I refrain from nosediving into the pool of greasy lipped grinning men.
The truth of the matter is it has less to do with me not believing in love, but the indelible truth of desperately yearning for such a love I fear is extinct.