I am so perfectly torn

Between Nirvana and drama.

Between feeling peaceful and lovely

And living in vanity and lust.

Where is beauty without hate?

No good stories ever end nicely

I cannot teach myself to stop romanticizing war-

So fixated am I with human error

That I cannot seem to let my own rest.

I hold on to the worst of my emotions

Let the bad blood I have ferment in my veins

For I know if one day I drain the liquid out through words

What a fabulous story it would make.

It is vain of me, I admit

I let my own soul suffer

In hopes that one day my writing ends up in a history book.

That’s all I truly want

But I’m no Emily Dickinson

Who rot away as her poetry thrived,

Why is it that all the greats are never great alive?

Am I so impatient that I cannot wait for death to make my words beautiful?

At this rate I’ll never achieve Nirvana

I’m much too attached

To detach myself from life’s trivial novelties

Of desire and disgust,

As Buddha so wisely instructed.

At least in the meantime

I have my beautiful bad-blood poetry.


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