Poem: It Is Easy To Hate Me by Andrew Stergiou‎

A sharp-witted knockdown of America’s love affair with positive thinking and an urgent call for a new commitment to realism

It is easy to hate me,

Finding myself, I am  very easy to hate,

Without ego, I am ergo ego ipso facto absurdum

For who an I to say I have no ego,

I am required to be an egotist,

you require me to be egotistical,

my sin is pride, that I am alive,

I breath and survive,

living in this brown card board box,

what is called planet earth,

there is no trip getting there,

I am the truth, the light and the power,

For the world is a sinful barren wasteland,

Brutal, obnoxious, ugly I live and exist,

in a world of goodness, beauty, and miracles,

with words for your lips as a sweet kiss,

of garlic breath and mouth orders,

sweetened with artificial flavorings

of toothpaste and mouthwash,

of medicine breath,

douched with strawberry flavorings,

with vanilla, peppermint and orange cinnimon,

where everything beautiful is a threat,

where all miracles are delusions,

where all goodness are perversions and lies,

where security is a throw of the dice,

I hate me, and you should hate me also,

for I don’t drink your mothers lukewarm milk,

I don’t eat of your manna,

nor live in a land of milk and honey,

but a land of food preservatives, additives and food colorings,

in artificial prices of artifical markets,

So I hate me, and I enjoy hating me.

For I love to hate, in hating me,

For I know it is me, but who are you,

for you and yours,

in what certainly does not improve,

I just wrote to someone I never met, never saw,

Someone I never spoke with,

Someone with out gender,

Someone without a body,

Some without a pedigree,

Someone without a resume,

Someone without a mother and a father,

Someone for whom in some sense I will never care,

Someone without an account number,

without a social security card, a birth certificate

without inspiring in stupidity,

without inspiring in hatre,

so without, how compelling me mysteriously,

in an urge to write, as they wrote, I wrote,

then I was, as I am, I was urged to write more,

then at some point, as I was required,

I was required to stop,

like the pugilist, worn and beaten senseless,

laying down for the count,

so taking notice I returned to me, my ugliness,

my anger, my hate, my emptiness,

my prison, my empty devoid planet,

my dead space, my empty cage,

the space where a toilet does not fit.

where I need to take a crap,

where all full of shit as I am, I am,

all constipated, or alternatively worse,

ranting, raving running at the mouth,

riverhead of the unending flow of shit,

that which flows and covers the whole world,

where I always need to take a crap.

though in fair use they stated:

“So never say you’re too powerless
To make a change for good
It’s not a matter of what you should do
It’s a matter of what you could”
(Marinela Reka, Copyright © 2011 Marinela Reka)

that is all they wrote and stated, I swear,

all so very pretentious for such a small flower of hope,

meaningless in the non-existing reality,

in something that happened but did not happen,

as it does not exist so:

I wrote in response, a short brief comment:

Sorry, I wish you would learn to think, read, and write better your poems are not my job: this poem of yours from the view of an empty windowless prison cell is a reactionary empty devoid meaningless metaphysical baseless ditty which on paper would not be substantial enough for most people to wipe their asses with.

I am not nice, I am not fair,

I am not you, existing as ass wipes, or worse,

unqualified to be less than an ass wipe.

without potential I am not an ass wipe,

I am the shit!

Share and Enjoy

Leave a Reply