Work and Hate

Work.
Life is all about how hard you work,
so they say.
Work and achieve.
Work and succeed.
Sweat builds character.
A good woman,
a good man,
works hard.
Maybe.
What about when our drive
runs over something,
runs over someone?
What about that?
What about when our drive
neglects something,
neglects someone
in our care,
near enough to feel
our energy, our drive, our will?
Do we pause?
Can we pause?
What is most important?

Why Hate

Most things floated indefinite
way back then,
but you I loved.
And you hated him.
In a clear moment,
I saw it.
I felt it.
I absorbed it,
and I kept it.
your hatred became my hatred,
my sturdy armor of identity,
for so very long,
beyond your days of notice,
beyond his days of notice,
until my shield gained in weight,
and I could barely breathe.
The permeating pestilence
of peonic devotion
had gone putrid.
It happens.
So I struggled out of
a dusty museum piece,
accepting my soft spots,
realizing, in the process,
maybe if I had not been
young and naïve and needy
way back then,
maybe sooner
I would found
a road of reason to follow,
and let
hateful passion pass.