Bukowski

This is for all the fucks who think they are writers

And for all the writers who are fucks

The college graduate with a screenplay of ambitions

And the drunk writing fragmented thoughts on a damp cocktail napkin

Just trying to make sense and figure out what is missing,

Trying to become noticed by someone, to contact the outside world

To find out why, and to warn them, the others,

Of the cold nights, and the lonely affairs

Regurgitated regrets for and from generations both past and future

If you're lucky you die, and if not you keep living

Living for all the wrong reasons, and dying to change

But instead the first returns home, and the second to order another drink

Both trying their hardest to forget how bad it hurts.