literature

Why do you hate me, Buddha?

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Literature Text

A row of wood;
that's what we all are, Buddha.
I have no time to let the termites and binds
slip inside what fuels the fire of my mind.
Hence, my red shoes
but you are worth the camera because I'm not even news.
That's just what we are, Buddha;
we're just here to kiss a fragment of the electric eclectic.
Secret language is all we know, you see,
but we can't write the message on paper
because we don't know how to spell "free"
and the verb tenses of the code are subtle fronts
to hide what we truly want.
Macbeth, you're not hallucinating.
The blood's on your hands
but you can't get it off cause you know what/when you should have said
and now you have languages floating around you
as they do in a child's head.
Heroin.
I can feel the hero in and the victim out.
Mosquito tico empire wobbling the centro american wires,
acidic computers,
sing to me, unfamiliar losers.
Elephants and cola
make dialating shade
slice like a blade.

The desire in my soul
is worth more than your "control."
The love in my eyes
will be the fire in my mind
as I die.
My human tendencies
make me no less a man,
so why do you hate me Buddha?
Why am I the scam?
Ashes to Ashes... that's what we are. So, why can human desire itself be evil, Buddha? Why is what makes the drive to live exist a limitation? I don't think I'll ever understand Buddhism. Why is our very nature the anti-thesis to our joy?
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