November 25, 2008
By erika johnson, New Windsor, MD

As the tears roll down my cheeks,
I feel the hot paths which lie beneath.
These tears, not of sadness, but anger and rage,
Will stain my face for the next few days.
For these feelings build up, and have no escape,
Like a bug in a jar, trapped,
In too small a place.
Then, after a while, the pressure gets too high,
It becomes overwhelming, these feelings I cannot hide.
My glass, filled to the rim with hate,
Left no room for ice,
Therefore it spilled out.
Hate is all it was, for hate is all I know.
This hate I feel, greater than that of any convict
As they return to jail,
It is all too much for me to bear,
All of this hate
Bottled up inside of me,
Is because of you.

I hate knowing none of your good deeds,

For you have not done any.

I hate your face and your voice,

When you become outraged.

I hate when you say my name,
I hate how you say it.
I hate when you talk to me,
I hate everything about you,
I especially hate how you want nothing to do with me.
You make me so miserable, and fill me with pain,
Yet nothing I do, nor anything I say
Will matter to you,
until I turn eighteen.
But, what I hate most, what makes me so mad,
Is that I’ll never have anyone to call “my dad.”

The author's comments:
This piece contains my true feelings. It was written for a class project, and presented. The response I recieved from my classmates was overwhelming. The class was completely silent and then everyone, as if on a timer, burst into applause.

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