Little Hate

By Mohit Vyas

Hate. It is not a powerful word—but a overwhelming feeling,

Whispers, they tell you about; in the Myths of how it consumes you.

Just once in awhile I pluck a flower, Viciously like it belongs to me.

Bee stings; Not everything I believe to be mine, is mine alone.

Hate. It is a strange feeling.

I see him laugh. So gleefully; giggles for the reason that is not me;

Bright Enough to whitewash my every portrait of his grin.

I grind my teeth, our words erased but pictures never fade;

So, the rose blushed Face mingled with Cascade.

I always leave to jump wagon of home, and aim my blues to swim;

And skeptics headlines agonize “because you hate him”.

Hate is strange thing but love is complex.

Like the puzzles that I’ve solved in my head a million time—but life never reflect.

Love has a little hate too. Like those thorns of rose;

Encasing it’s existence from being plucked Away

—and still somehow little hate has too brittle love.

Two shoes to fit, and proportion so different—

You claim your love and I clean my hate; A constant loop of leading aimless fates.

Rush, I should Cross the lanes of Highways—But all Alone

Hush, I Linger a little ivy hate, So this brittle heart never conflict to grow.

By Mohit Vyas