My muse for writing is hatred
I hate this and I hate that
I hate you.
My right hand seems perpetually pressed
Against paper
And the pressure from my left
Comes from a clenched fist
My fingers wrapped around
Some crumpled scribble of a thought
Most times my body feels like the vertical pole
Balancing opposing weight systems
Constantly pushing for power only to lose it
Again every single time.
And I hate that I rhyme
Because I am too off set to stand straight
On my own two feet
I am meek and I must teeter between
Who I am and what I write
When what I am in a ball of hate
Writing about how I wish it was love
And how nice cool metal would feel on my left hand
Compared to the hot blood
That seeps under my finger nails
From constantly clenching back cascades
Of callous conscious thoughts of hate.
That I hate I wished was love.