LIVE SI ETAH | HATE IS EVIL
The ocean of pain begins
with a single action.
The ocean of pain starts
with hate.
I bought myself a boat into
this ocean.
And I pushed it off the shore.
Now I’m lost in the waves,
shore far out of sight.
They say I’ll never get back,
but I might.
I just have to defeat the hate,
I just have to fight.
But when you feel as strongly as I do,
It’s not easy.
So maybe,
I’ll live and die in this ocean.
Or maybe I’ll rise.
Hate.
It’s a bad feeling,
yet it’s so easy to give in
and so hard to dig yourself out.
But if you made the pit,
you can climb out.
You just need someone on the outside
to pull you out.
You can’t fight an army with one person.
You have to raise an army of your own.
So the army of love
fights against hate.
So the army of hate
fights against love.
Both armies are the same size.
In the end, it comes down to
passion.
Hate is a river,
it never stops moving
from cause to cause
planting seeds of deep doubt.
I hate myself.
Myself seems not to care about
what really matters.
Myself never looks the way I want it to.
Myself looks into danger and cowers.
Myself hates me and
I hate myself.
Planting seeds of deep doubt
from cause to cause,
hate is a river.
Live backwards is evil.
Life is an evil force.
I hate living.
I hate living.
I hate.
I hate.
I...
etah.
Live si etah.
That phrase sounds kind of latin.
But it’s not.
It’s backwards.
When you put it forwards,
hate is evil.
Hate is evil.
It’s the most vile of all emotions.
But it’s so much easier
than love.
I hate love.
I hate looking at my
family and friends and lovers
and saying I love you.
Because it’s not easy.
And I had to go through hell
before I realized that.
I hate love.
Because love hurts.
And hate feels good.
I hate writing.
I hate baring my sould for the world to see
everything that’s wrong with me
on a sheet of paper.
But I hate talking
even more than writing.
The words
never form themselves properly
in audio
the way they do
in my head.
on a screen.
on paper.
I hate hate.
I hate the way people hate
because of being different.
I love differences.
I hate haters.
But in a way,
I’m a hater.
So I hate Myself.
Myself feels to strongly,
yet I’m too weak to
rid myself of those feels.
So I cut.
I cut away the hate,
release the hatred bubbling under my skin.
And it comes out and stains my clothes red.
But eventually,
It’ll bleed out completely.
And there will be
one less hater in the world.
Myself.
Such a complex being,
yet my motivations are simple.
Myself is motivated by hate.
It sees the hate of others and twists it like molten metal
into a knife.
Then Myself takes this knife,
this knife of hate,
and points it
at the source.
The hate of others
is turned into my own hate
directed at them.
Live si etah.
Live si etah.
Live si etah.
If hate is evil,
then am I, too?
I hate the way Myself has no strength.
I hate the way Myself doesn’t
see the problems it causes.
I hate the way Myself is confused.
Myself is confused.
While I write this poem, Myself is confused.
Myself is confused about hate.
Is hate evil,
or is evil hate?
Is evil even a thing?
Is hate?
Or is it all just another gallon of gas
on the speedway of life.
Myself’s gas tank has reached it’s capacity.
It’s beginning to overflow.
Time to take a knife,
and bleed out some gas,
that way,
it’s not so overwhelming
anymore.
Myself wonders why I do this.
I’ve tried and tried to explain.
But Myself just won’t leave me alone.
Sometimes I want to kill Myself.
It’s just so annoying.
Myself contradicts me.
Sometimes I contradict Myself.
I don’t agree with Myself,
and Myself doesn’t agree with me.
Myself is merely a voice inside my head.
I don’t have to care about Myself.
But my friends and family care about Myself,
so I’m forced to pretend.
I’ll never be free of Myself,
even when I die,
Myself, the infuriating voice
will always be there.
I hate Myself.
In the gas tank of life,
I’m full.
I can’t carry anymore.
But Myself is making me run
off of electricity,
not blood like I want to.
Always,
I will be stuck with Myself.
Even when
I want Myself to die.
Why do I have to be Myself?
Why do people call me Myself?
I’m not Myself.
I’m me.
Keep me out of my mind.
Take me out of Myself
Live si etah.
flesym etah I
Even if I write this
whole poem backwards,
Myself will always be there.
ereht eb syawla lliw flesym
I can’t escape Myself.
But still,
sometimes,
I want to kill Myself.
and rid me of the hatred
for Myself.
Myself won’t leave me alone.
I hate Myself.
I hate Myself.
I hate Myself.
Myself doesn’t care about my hate.
I wish I could
not care about other’s hate,
but I’m not like Myself.
LIVE SI ETAH
I MA SA