“there are worse things
than being alone
but it often takes
decades to realize this
and most often when you do
it’s too late
and there’s nothing worse
than too late”
― Charles Bukowski
(via kippkins)
"don’t feel sorry for me.
I am a competent, satisfied human being.
be sorry for the others who fidget, complain,
who constantly rearrange their lives like furniture,
juggling mates and attitudes.
their confusion is constant, and it will touch whoever they deal with.
beware of them: one of their key words is “love”
and beware of those who only take instructions from their God,
for they have failed completely to live their own lives.
don’t feel sorry for me because I am alone,
for even at the most terrible moments, humor is my companion.
i am a dog walking backwards
i am a broken banjo
i am a telephone wire strung up in Toledo, Ohio.
i am a man eating a meal this night in the month of September.
put your sympathy aside.
they say water help up Christ:
to come through, you better be nearly as lucky."
For the Foxes by Charles Bukowski (via thechocolatebrigade)
"
if I never see you again
I will always carry you
inside
outside
on my fingertips
and at brain edges
and in centers
centers
of what I am of
what remains.
Charles Bukowski (via thechocolatebrigade)
"Sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I’m not going to make it, but you laugh inside — remembering all the times you’ve felt that way."
Charles Bukowski (via 24ribs)
(via want-tobreatheyou)
"careful poetry
and careful
people
last
only long
enough
to
die
safely."
Charles Bukowski (via thechocolatebrigade)
(Source: youjustyou, via loveyourchaos)
the emotion was there but it wasn’t spelled out in neon
"What a weary time those years were-to have the desire and need to live but not the ability."
Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye
"I could see the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay poor. But I didn’t particularly want money. I didn’t know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didn’t have to do anything. The thought of being something didn’t only appall me, it sickened me."
Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye
