Hate on a Monday Evening
I hate things.
And that might be wrong of me.
(I hate admitting that.)
But I think much like love,
hate just comes about.
Into forms that foster
and threaten,
nurture and nash
ones soul,
yes.
But much like love,
it's tension's strung high.
And irresistible.
I hate the way staplers don't always work.
And the sound of unwelcome cutlery
against slate virginity.
I hate depression.
And the way it drowns you
like a cold, boiling shower.
I hate hate.
And it's prejudice.
If you hate,
hate all, not some.
At least you're predictable
in your insanity.
I hate loving.
And it's little nuances and rules
that rip you from reality
into torturous bliss.
I hate moving in circles.
And the nostalgia of grief it brings.
I hate complete and utter ignorance.
The kind brought on by stupifying joy.
I hate those people that can
find it.
Like finding a snack in a grocery store.
I hate everything,
those days hurt.
Mental, physical pain;
the soul at the chiropractor.
I hate nothing,
those days bring later hurt.
Emotional, grieving pain;
the soul peeking out the shades to a bright morning.