The Hated One

This is how it is.

Consider me, the hated one

The foe that you unceasingly must vanquish

Constructed out of stories half-heard long ago
And many what-you-read-somewheres
Defended only by the ineffectual and immoral —

I, and my people, stand accused

Of many things, but most frequently,
Of hating

You gorge yourself almost daily on
Your tribal diet of diatribes
Against the likes of me

But you have had personal experience of my kind, you say:
I disagreed with you
I live differently
And expect you to allow me to continue to do so;
This you cannot, will not do

Because this is how it is:
In your quiet life, you have known humility;
To struggle, to fail, to get back up —
But in the life of me and my people
There is always superiority on your side

You *just know* I’m wrong —

That I think what we think,
That I live how we live
Is a manifest sign of my lovelessness:
For the sheer effrontery we indulge in everyday
In not thinking of you

Yet, you do not know me –
You burn straw men and straw women every day,
And call them me

And when you can, you burn the real me

But, because you love your own,
You cannot be loveless;
Because you do not know me or mine,
You say we are

I know these words will not assuage you,
You will not think they apply to you —

And you will never know that what you cannot forgive
Is not our differences

But what is alike between us

I will continue always to be,

Your hated one

A Hate Poem

(I figured there should be some redress on this blog for the overwhelming preponderance of love poems. – Owen)

(I figured there should be some redress on this blog for the overwhelming preponderance of love poems. – Owen)

My mother said, “Do not give into hate.”
Or maybe that was Yoda. I don’t know.
It seems such good advice, at any rate:
But I’m about to break it, even so.

I hate the way I miss you now you’re gone.
I hate that I don’t feel you in the night;
I hate the sullen emptiness of dawn,
But know that this much hating isn’t right.

For all this hate, it’s gnawing at me somehow –
As one whose dying from the inside out;
I hate how much I’m hurting over love now,
But hate
Is all I’m left
To think about

mores et pauperem

daemones pauperum

the angels
and doing good
to those who who can give back nothing

the demons
and devouring
those too weak to resist

so both blessed and cursed
are the poor
the meek
the powerless

as they
and only they

can truly discern
the demons
the angels

from bitter