Hate is a Four-Letter Word

 

I was writing about a man

who hated everything.

He hated the World,

the people, the way time was fleeting,

just everything.

 

And the more I wrote about

this man who hated the world,

I found myself struggling to

relate to his reasoning and

stubbornness.

 

I thought to myself

whether I had, as I recognize

the passing of my own time,

may have softened a little bit,

and the man who hated everything,

was a complete stranger.

 

I just couldn’t get him,

his hatred for it all.

If anything, his hatred,

made me feel sorry for him,

in a way I didn’t think I would.

 

A curious pity took over and

I simply could not relate or recognize

this hateful man.

Personally, I don’t like a lot of things;

things that upset me or ramp up my anxiety,

I don’t think I hate them.

 

I’d much rather be

calm and passively transcendent,

than actively hate things.

It seems like an immense amount of

energy to hate things.

 

And the more I wrote,

the more I hated what I was writing.

Maybe I’m not all that calm and passive

as I thought.

 

I hate that.