Your hate is hollow, it breeds nothing, it festers and rots.

It does not build, it does not heal, it does not matter.

Love demands more than your narrow sight,

it demands you bleed with the mother’s grief,

choke with the addict’s hunger,

hear the child’s muffled cries in a house that hates its own blood.

To live without struggle is to live without truth,

to walk blind through a world that groans beneath your weight.

The earth mourns us, it howls in storms, it cracks in drought,

and still you hide behind curtains of prejudice,

entitlement, and cowardice,

clutching your hate like it could mean something.

But it doesn’t.

I fucking hate your hate.

I hate the way it poisons the air we breathe,

the way it shrinks your soul to nothing but dust.

You hate inconvenience.

You hate difference.

You hate the hands that feed you,

the animals that guard the soil,

the voices that will not echo your lies.

Hate. Hate. Hate.

It is all you have, and it is nothing.

When death comes, your hate dies with you.

No banners, no glory, no weight upon the earth.

Just silence.

And stone.

And the truth that in the end,

we all rot the same.