I'm sick of being told that I'm 
"Not Charles Bukowski." Because, 
I never said I was.
But also, and more, because, every time,
(And I suppose I've told myself plenty too)
It's a let down. 

I want to believe
(And not in that X-Files sort of 
(I Want to Believe sort of
(way) 
That we're all Bukowski. 
We're all at least poets. 
At least we're all ***** poets,
In one way or another. 
"I'm too ****** for this *******."

But this is starting to feel like
The part in the film when I'm 
Talking to the old girl, and she says, 
"What I've said up to this point is
Pointless. Now you decide."
I'm at the part of the book 
When he finally finds her.
And yes she still loves him,
Or at least. She's loved him the whole time. 

I can turn a leather recliner
Into a throne, if need be. 
I'll tape a crown of paper together
To prove a point. 
I just happen to think
The kid getting high in my kitchen
Has a real chance at the presidency. 

(Grab this, draw a circle on the floor
With it. Fill the circle up with
Everything you know, the words
The love, the colors, the mended,
And the still open. Watch that light up
At least a universe.)

I'd hope our kingdoms
Could co-exist peacefully,
But my respect for you,
As a fellow ruler,
Would never waiver

Because you can make your crown
Of staples and business cards
And be King Bukowski if you wanted,
But at least you'd be special. 
And (at the very least),
You'd be king.

I never asked
for anyone to
bend over
backwards
or make sure
that I was okay.

I never asked
for the creaking
floorboards that
keep me awake
as I toss and turn
at night.

I never
wanted to be
stricken by the
fear that I can
never let go.

But I will.

Because I
never wanted
to hold on
in the first
place
and I never
wanted
a reason to
complain.

I never asked to
    be drunk;
    I planned
    on it.

The moonlight
shining in from
my fourth story
window
is fading
from the rim
of my glass,
so I can't
see what exactly
lies in front of me.

Making my way to
the bed so I can
rest once again
has become more
of a chore than
a peaceful thought.

The past can make it so easy to relapse

not because of the past itself

but

running away from it

and burying it in the subconscious,

hiding it away and letting it silently

fest fest fest.

Is what causes you to be haunted.

---

Pain;

A raging sore, a deep wound, an eternal scar,

just wants to be felt; acknowledged.

So I try not, to ignore it

when I see the marks of the past; knives

digging into the valves of my heart; pain

even when it comes back

strong and hard and fighting

like a hurricane

carrying me away under water

suffocating the freedom in my punctured lungs

I will not let it destroy me.

—-

Its not because I am weak that I struggle with it

but the brain is strong; be aware...

For thoughts can make you a victim of your own mind

though I hope
there will be a time when

healing, that miraculous God-sent healing is at the end.

When

you stop ignoring the past

and instead start loving those broken pieces, the shame you felt,

the fear that crippled

and realise

it will soon ease, soon melt away, soon diminish

and you’ll remember

**pain has no authority to hurt