These days, I resent the inevitable morning,
The perpetual lethargy
And the whittling reminder that the world
Has already begun.

I hate the mass of the sand
As I stride past daffodils and quills
And children who are so inquisitive in their innocence
And those who will never receive a meaningful farewell.

I detest my unhappiness
And my cheery neighbours who insist
That their mornings are so eagerly anticipated
And waste endless teary tissues at night.

I despise the mushrooms that have grown on
The grassy and earthy and sandy paths,
That no shoes have kicked them mercilessly,
For no shoes have crossed them in a small eternity.

I loathe the universal perception
That "love" has become an illusion-
A tired and worthless roar
Into the increasingly desirable abyss.

I abominate the abnormality of hope
And that those who empty their shallow pockets of it
Are greeted with a similar distaste
To the farmers who spread manure in the spring.

However, what I hate most is the relentless truth
That I consistently find myself comfortable,
Educated, loved, well-fed,
And bitter

And the fact that so many others do not.