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.