It Must Be Hard
It must be hard
To carry it around
That load of hate
Weighing on your heart
A powder keg
Waiting to explode
You pretend it isn’t there
But now and again it shows
In what you say
In what you write
The sarcasm hidden under the sweet
The hate clothed in happy
And yet….
It’s there
For the discerning to see
It must be hard
To have it eat away at you
And not be able to voice
All those words
That are begging to be heard
Dying to hit the mark
And be set free
It must be hard to keep them locked away
For fear of criticism
Of “losing face”
And yet….
They gnaw away at your being
Words begging for release
For those inferior
Made of fluff
Not substantial
Not up to par
Mediocre
Weak
Sniveling
Sappy
Sorry
Excuses of human beings
How hard it must be
How it must hurt to be civil
Pretend to be kind
Thinking others are blind
To the real motives behind
Your words…..
Ah…if only you’d realize
The only one hurting
The only one who is weak
Is you
To love takes strength
To forgive takes power
To rejoice with others takes integrity
The finer qualities
To hate is easy
To love near impossible
Hate would dissipate
If you took some time to realize
The person who irks you
Who just rubs you the wrong way
Maybe has been rubbed in molestation
Maybe has been struck down with abuse
Perhaps has been used
Emotional abuse
Sexual abuse
Verbal abuse
Physical abuse
Insecurity
Feelings of inferiority
He has hidden baggage too
Behind his false bravado
A heart that is in pain
Much like you
His brokenness plain
Put away hate
It’s not too late
To look inside
The one you despise
And see
A reflection of YOU!
Eileen M G
I leave you with two fantastic poems: William Blake (A Poison Tree) and Stephen Crane (The Heart).
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
William Blake
The hater suffers most (EG)
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2014
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