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."