Can my tenderness and longing of my heart ever be embraced, understood.
Will I forever be a slave to my exterior, to others misunderstandings and projections of me.
Will others always see the monster in Charles Bukowski and not his tender heart.
Will I always be a target of emotional assassination, because of my tenderness and daring outside of the conventional.
Will these I know and don't know forever try to destroy me on different levels and not comprehend, cherish and nourish my tender longings of my being.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem