maybe i’m a hater.
maybe i’m too harsh.
maybe i’m prejudiced.

or, just maybe, there’s a method to my madness.

but there is no madness, only the dislike
that radiates from my eyes.
and she wonders why i can’t tell you why i’m this way.

so do i.

every other girl loves it.
so why do i loathe,
why do i say i’d rather eat worms?

someone tell me if they see.

maybe i’m a hater.
maybe i’m too harsh.
maybe i’m prejudiced.

there is no method to any madness of mine.

to say love is the center of my hate
is to say a cloud without a face is possible.
and all i can tell her is “you don’t get it”.

because she really doesn’t, and never will.

it is not—could not—be because i’m bitter;
there is nothing to be angry about.
when has there ever been?

but she can’t help seeing things in a different light.

maybe i’m a hater.
maybe i’m too harsh.
maybe i’m prejudiced.

the method in which i seek, has yet to be found.