Bukowski Jr.

i’ll tell you what it’s like to be lonely

i flip through pages of my favourite book-
about a 17-year-old boy who wore
a stupid red hunter’s cap and likes to smoke weed
in his crappy cheap hotel room
on either the second or third floor.
he carries his luggage of angst
and left pieces of them
in places, he never ought to be.
he tried pursuing a casual conversation
with a whore
and likes calling everything a phony.
i never thought i’d give away
all of my empathy.

how about creating a playlist
of sappy indie songs i have picked.
i’ll stay in the four corners of my own universe;
my humble abode
with stacks of paperbacks, cluttered posters
and sentiments that i have hoarded.
whilst tuning into the missing mush,
i would be stifled
by the whiffs of solitary.
other scents, i hardly remember them.
yet the familiarity
always finds a way to catch me
before a deep descent.

maybe i’m sick.
i do have sickle-cell anemia,
no wonder why i’m so fatigued as always,
but that’s not the only reason why.
maybe i have goldfish short-term amnesia
or whatever medical jargon that is,
i keep forgetting i’m too alone,
even in a school of floppy fishes.
i don’t know this vague disease
that has been bothering me,
it turned me into an all-nighter.
sometimes, i crave
for a nostalgia that isn’t there.

i really hate that feeling.

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