Why do we look down and pity
Those who are content in their
Nothingness and suffering

Is it really right and righteous
For us to want them to have more?
It is both impossible and implausible
For us all to have more.

For those who had nothing
Everything is gained
For those who have everything
Fear of losing is more constant

When I was a child
I read that story of a man
Who used to be happy with
His limited share of goods
Then, he found a gold nugget
And the poison spread through
His mind
Till he was viciously suspicious
Of old friends
And remained sleepless
Fearing the loss of
His fortune
How unfortunate that
When he gained the most
He lost it all
Lost his soul

Those of us with so much
Are gluttons with ever
Increasing appetite
We are constantly trying to
Fill the emptiness in our
Soul with a fleeting
Satisfaction and
The joy of a newly acquired
Good

The happiness last for
Shorter and shorter
Periods of time
And then we are left
With the void

When we protest this
We are met with
“You are ungrateful”
“You are so blessed”
Are we really blessed?
When we gained everything
We lost our soul, our happiness,
Our upward gazes facing the sun,
And are now facing the field of ennui,
Or even, the dust of unspeakable shame,
For it seems we also lost the right to suffer.

When we are young,
Likes candies to a toddler
We crave for the sweetness of being
When you grow old
Likes the bitterness of tea
We immerse in the more tattered memories.

In Peter Jackson’s
“They Shall Not Grow Old”
Such horror was described
By the soldiers and veterans
That survived
You’d think they would block out
Their memories entirely
Yet, it ended with such a profound
Declaration
That
If they had a second chance
They would do it all over again

Same with my grandmother,
When you ask her what was
The best times in her life
It will always be the times
She fought the most
And was hurt the most

And my mother’s generation
Was subjected to much hunger
Yet, she is more regretful about
The blandness
Of life and fulfillment now
With so many of her and my
Peers trying to actively
Seriously, and dangerously
Starve themselves
Just to feel pretty

How the rice and fruits
Tasted so preciously
How my grandmother
Had tried to relive her
Less materialistic life
From her childhood in me
How I searched and searched
For those imperfect berries
That always tasted sourer
Than sweet

Such is the Fullness of Being!
Yet,
We are now blessed
With the Emptiness
Of Everything

I often feel so guilty
Being someone with so much
That I could leisurely
Just write poetry
While others try to give more and
More to those with
Nothing

Yet,
I see them much much
Happier than our materialistic
Society
We think are more blessed
We think we are in a better place
But are we?
While they are able to find
Happiness and fulfillment
In hunger and suffering
We are lost among
Our everything.

Do they need more, or
Do we need to learn to
Live with less, much less?

I can’t help fill hungry bodies
But can I give myself to comfort
Souls that are suffering in
The Blandness of being
And abandoned for
Having everything.

Her eyes glistened like granules of sugar under bright light
Her hair flowed softly like warm chocolate might
Her skin was like toffee, though when I dared take a bite
It was for times much sweeter than she.

Her heart shined like gold foil I hadn't yet unwrapped
Her touch lulled like syrup and I soon became trapped
Her words first candy-coated but those quickly were scrapped
It was for times much sweeter than she.

Her cares became much sourer than I wanted to taste
Her sweetness grew moldy and she tossed it with haste
Her love frosted over and she lay it to waste
It was for times much sweeter than she.

Older in the punch
Blessed in the time, of a unity to egg
Beg me a shoulder, a duty in a hunch
Satiety is a walk with truth's we fate to a rhyming neglect?

Bitterness is in heaven...
Haunted milling of a sense of rage...
Lessoned hindrance to fortify the accord of leaven...
Simple arrogance, in favor of the music to face...

Sweet?
Sourer than dread itself...
Made to cruise and tarry, the work of an angel
Threatened by the scope of your admission, an unction of health?

Such a fight, for a piece of bread?
Aloof tones of demand and the scale of uniqueness, to worry
Is a relationship with sense, apropos to a kick in the head?
Or is this sickness of vice, and its victory with anxiety and fury?

Twist of patience and the cornerstone of the rhyme
Sickness is our day, and the day comes with a price
Saged as a mortal coil can be, to welcome home a whole trying
Is still a relationship with exhumation and wishes to wizen...

Your father and penicillin...
Pride and the door of infamy...
One more time, is a master of time, willing
To show you the ropes, or is worth, an estranged vanity?

A chill flows through your veins
A smell bitterer than cigarette smoke
A taste sourer than a thousand lemons
A deep black and red that blinds your vision
That hard “t” at the end lingering in your ears
A monster that forms at the slightest dissatisfaction
The slightest opportunity missed
Beating you until two more take its place