Inner Hatred

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  • Hate

    Inner Hatred

    My Hate is like a river of blood which runs wild and cold.Blue when looked through but once falling in becomes red as the crimson mask worn upon my scared and disfigured face.Grass as green as a peacocks feather, yet is the color of envy that flows through my viens.My skin chared not from the sun but from a frail burning heart that gives not life but death and love does not exist in this hollowness but emptiness.To know th joys of love, of friendship, of companionship are words not spoken in the language in which this person lives.Hatred is the only words spoken in this sorry spirit given what's called life.Love is a word used to express ones feelings towards one another;to give oneself to the other.But the love this body once had now has none.Fate has no plan nor does it have the time of day to show the meaning of this so called love to this body;no need of giving this frail body a working heart that doesn't bleed but a heart that bleeds without notice for I have no feeling nor do I care in a sense.They say we have guardian angels that help protect and be our crutch when we are down.I say mine is the grim reaper which helps to spread death wherever this body goes for when he is with me all that comes is famine, destruction and caos.Not just for me but the people around me.To feel joy, to feel friendship and most of all to feel love would be a blessing if only for a split second.But to me that would be the death of me.They say that one day there will be a war between that which is considered to be heaven and hell.Well I guess heaven and hell is all in the eyes of the beholder.Well I welcome hell and all its fury for heaven has no ned for me and hell would love me but fears for what i might become.Well I welcome whatecer may come for me because my goodness is my pain.They say you can't have life without death.Well I believe that without death there's no life for we need to die to be born.This is not just feelings but the inner hatred within thyself.

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    To have great poets there must be great audiences too.

    Walt Whitman, American Poet (1819-1892)

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