Death dragged out

The vessel through which my humanity lies may get muddied 

I mean the blood on the inside 

I shouldn't see my skin turn purple 

I shouldn't feel my heart cry out for less complacency 

I don't like that I'm made of flesh, I'd rather be made of plastic 

I don't like that my skin breathes as much as I do

I don't like that I am made of meat 

I've seen what happens to things 

When they're made of meat 

I wish my brain didn't know things that I don't know yet, or anymore. 

I know you've done worse things to me that it won't let me remember 

I know it's known about you longer than I have 

I don't like how it whispers 

I don't like how it keeps secrets. 

 I have decided to meditate away my sense of self 

Just so I won't be so scared of losing it 

This is what the world does to people. 

Siddhartha observed poverty and said meditate 

I feel like he should've said something against poverty 

Siddhartha observed poverty and said lose your sense of self, 

it's the only way 

That tells you all you need to know about poverty 

 Poverty as a word Implies poverty as a state

Like a group or a clique or a class 

But poverty is the process of withering away 

Poverty is enforced deterioration 

Of your body, of your heart, of your soul, and of your brain 

 Having never known the color of my father's eyes 

Because he lost them to politics 

He dwells in hell but it's a hell he can grip 

A hell he can eat and a hell he can whip 

That is how my childhood felt.

If that is how my childhood felt, 

I can only imagine poverty 

I still have my eyes 

I still have my body 

And though my skin breaths and the breath keeps sinking 

Death approaches and teases when I'm tired or when I'm thinking 

I used to think I'd never have to worry about poverty. 

But is it not just death dragged out.