Human pleasure 
is of no importance 
when one’s soul 
thrives in turmoil. 
 
Dine good food, 
drown in fine wine, 
still the emptiness inside stays. 
 
As if it were part of who you are. 
Part of the various skins 
making up your exterior.

So why renounce yourself so coldly 
when everything you do 
reminds you of yourself?

In luxury or in poverty, 
you are. 
You are. 
You are.
 
Isn’t that the point of it all? 
Being?
 
So why does it hurt?

Why does it hurt to be?

What more can you be 
if not human?

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