Poor, Poor Me

reading about Bukowski

made me realize one thing,

I was only a few savage beatings,

and a childhood of ritual abuse away

from being a literary genius;

I mean come on,

couldn't they have chained me

to my bed,

or come home drunk and

smacked me around at least

once or twice?

maybe put a gun to my head,

threatened to pull the trigger;

something;

anything;

how the hell did they expect me

to become a misunderstood poet,

without the right kind of

encouragement?

Dammit!

why the fuck did my parents

have to be so god damned

perfect?

they’re always thinking of themselves;

poor, poor me.

.

.