All that spirits desire, spirits attain.

With each passing day, I feel more and more sorry for myself.
This must stop.

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.
- Alone With Everybody, Charles Bukowski.

I wonder if I should put my own poetry up, but it's very personal.
I don't know if I should.
There's too much of myself in them,