For the Love of Spite


For the Love of Spite

They say love heals.

That may be true,

But spite and spite alone,

Is what's gotten me through. 

I grew up in a home,

A home without care.

Mentally ill parents,

My choices were often bare.

They noticed my seizures,

People cared for my meat suit,

But when it came to my precious psyche

No one gave a flying hoot. 

I was 7 and shattered

Half the person I wasn't yet. 

At 13 again my life was erased,

Like I'm on some kinda losing bet. 

They say love heals.

They say it will be alright.

But in your darkest hours

All you have is spite…

Hope is unreachable 

When you don't grasp the concept.

When you've only been hit

The reality is inept.

But spite is glorious.

Spite is always there. 

When you feel like giving in

Don't let them see you tear.

Get angry, get mad, 

get busy my child.

For when joy's unreal,

This anger feels mild. 

Spite can save a dying soul.

It gives a purpose to your passion.

But defiance is often 

Not received in this fashion. 

I chose to defy the doctors.

I chose to defy the odds. 

I chose to defy all reasoning

And push back when he prods.

Ten brain injuries,

A decade of abuse,

Unmatched bad luck,

God I call a truce! 

Stop accepting the pain

And start living in spite.

Stop being a victim

Then set yourself right. 

He won't make me mean

He won't turn me into him.

For I will control my emotions

And not change it on a whim. 

I will be better than him

Than her, than they thought.

For every failure I overcame

I was the only one who fought.

I am kind, I am loyal,

I am helpful, I am smart.

Though every bit of my backstory

Says that I should not even have a heart.

I should be angry, I should be selfish, 

You know I should be just like them. 

I should be mean, I should be spineless, 

You know I should have been just grim. 

But I will not bow

You will not win 

I will not ever

Repeat the familial sins. 

For I am alive and well

Not for always being in the right

But by the grace of God, good medicine,

And a healthy dose of spite. 

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Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

jj1562’s Poems (156)

Title Comments
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Six Word Story XII 0
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