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