g-paw

To know what hate feels like
is to know the bitter side of life,
it steals little pieces of your soul,
little pieces that might never grow.

I was at work, the day after Christmas,
nineteen eighty five, when the call came.
And my boss, who was my friend,
handed me the phone with a look I didn't understand, and said,
"This is a call you need to take."

My little brother was on the other end.
He told me our dad was dead.
And I felt no pain -
no emptiness that comes with death.
Instead, I put the phone down
and went back to work at my desk.

Hatred is such a selfish thing,
but never selfish in delivering pain.
True hatred most people will never know
as it rises from the depths of Hell below.

I know that hate can negate a death.
I know that hate can replace emptiness.
What it took me a long time to learn
was how deep into the soul hate can burn.

Fully five years had passed
after such a wasteful death
before I shed the
one
lonely
single
tear
that mourned my loss.

And the burning fuel of my hate,
the eternal fuel rising from Hell's gate,
the never ending cycle of hate,
suffered its own cruel death and began to abate.

And nearly five more years have gone,
the flow of hatred's fuel shut off.
The seed that planted hatred's cause
is a faded and distant memory, nearly lost.

To know what hate feels like
is to know the bitter side of life,
it steals little pieces of your soul,
little pieces that might never grow.



This was the only poem that I "published", besides those in my chap book. That became my first brush with vanity publishing. But Oh, I was so very excited at the time. I never did buy an overpriced copy of that publication. Truth is, I doubt that publication ever saw the dark of ink.

Enjoy.

SteMcGrath

I think it would have seen the dark of ink. I really enjoyed this and can feel it to be personal to me, so if poetry does that for one other than yourself; I'm sure it was worth writing.

Good work

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"He was over at our house struggling with a poem he could not finish, so I took him upstairs and gave him sex. He came down and finished that verse in twenty-five minutes."

dannyboy

To know what hate feels like
is to know the bitter side of life,
it steals little pieces of soul,
little pieces that might never grow.

the day after Christmas,
nineteen eighty five, when the call came.
the boss, who was a friend,
handed across the phone said,
"This is a call you need to take."

dad was dead.
no pain -
no emptiness that comes with death.
put the phone down
and went back to work.

Hatred is such a selfish thing,
but never selfish in delivering pain.
True hatred most people will never know
as it rises from the depths of Hell below.

Hate can negate a death.
Hate can replace emptiness.
Takes a long time to learn
how deep into the soul hate can burn.

Fully five years had passed
after such a wasteful death
before the one
lonely single tear
that mourned loss
was shed.

this is rough but I am trying to show how I would taker this deeply personal piece and move it out of itself into a poem that attempts to take the personal experience and connect it to the universal. Hope you are not offended.

danny

Baron

I enjoyed the poem and think that you should also give some thought to dannyboy's take on it.

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g-paw

I'll certainly consider what's been said. The poem nearly breaks into prose at the second and third stanzas, an attempt to "tell the story" and lay groundwork.

This poem was five years in the making ("Fully five years had passed") and is the compilation of many efforts at writing my feelings. There was little effort at refinement once it was committed to paper.

Baron

I think that dannyboy's suggestion highlights the difference between writing this for yourself and writing it to be read by others.

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