Hate on a Sunday morning

I write in hate and hate consumes what I write
I write as if shaving words with the sharpest of blades
And letters bleed and thoughts cut
for what I write
Is sharp and acute as only hate itself can be.

All things resume to a maddening polarity
There is no brightness in dark words
There is no darkness too. Nothing but Hate.
Inflamed hate until havoc and oblivion alone rule.

Flowers are to be crushed love despised friendship scorned.
Life? Life is to be trapped in a coffin, suffocated
In existence, overwhelmed by the meaninglessness
Of all things that are, were, will be and are not.

My quest? To be content with this dead life of mine
I Hate myself and all of the rest.
I hate what made what I am,
I hate both god and the devil,
my Hate knows not boundaries:

I’m the most hateful man there ever was.

What I touch becomes dead. My breath is foul.
Give me a nuclear device and I’ll crush thee like insects;
With a smile. I crave for the end of Mankind.

And yet…there are tears in my eyes
They carve red scars in the face and all hate is gone.
And I cut my wrists and think only of green pastures
And peace finally overcomes.