Hate Breeds Hate

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
When there is only anger and pain left what does it mean to live? To exist? A short poem that reflects on this theme.

Submitted: January 19, 2013

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Submitted: January 19, 2013



Hatred can often grow thick inside the heart,

grow like a bacteria of the soul.

But when you have that hatred that becomes so gross

it clogs up your veins there is no coming back.

It makes your heart swell as if it were searching

for any surrounding love it can find

but often there nothing but darkness.

Then that hatred continues to consume your thoughts as well as your mind,



and deeper

until there is nothing left of your soul.

You exist but for you there is no existence,

nothing but darkness,

nothing but hate.

When you come to this you are but a wandering shadow,

meandering through the days you have left.

Until you recover this and like life it diminishes into nothing.

Or you die.

The days,

the nights,

the hours,

the minutes,

these seconds so long that each one is ebbed away

by the tick of the clock on your bed side.

Whilst your state is thus, existence can be futile.

When your heart,

like mine,

is built upon bricks of jet, and walls made from shards of glass.

The parts are strung together by butterfly threads that often tear to break.

This must be why my heart so often aches.

My blood runs thick of tear mixed in spite which so sickly turns through the nights.

With each beat I hear the drums,

the tolling of your insults

and your pitiful words pounding in the stereo of my ear.

All I have is myself and losing that is my greatest fear.

My mind is a cave that echoes my chilled thoughts;

they are frozen by wonder if all is worth the waiting.

My patience has always been diminutive,

thinning into nothing.

But it is all this waiting.

I have been waiting all my life for it to end,

but perhaps on reflection I have,

I am,

waiting for life to begin.

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