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 f--- did my parents

have to be so damn

perfect?

they’re always thinking of themselves;

poor, poor me.

.

.