PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The wind blows at the face of a traveler

His travels wear him like the wind

He wears his hardships like a hatchet in his shoulder

Digging out chip after chip



He moves on because he thinks he has to

He thinks his sorrow is a shameful fault of his

And so he points his fears at people who are different



And he points his fingers til they bleed

All because he's afraid of what may be in arms reach

And he's afraid to take the axe out

And he's afraid to be happy



But he's not afraid to hate

Because hate can feel like happiness

They are nearly the same, though in hate there is no risk



And thus, the traveler travels

Believing the hatchet to be buried

Keeping within his comfort zone

Hoping to keep others out of theirs



And it's a sad fellow who comes to find,

That he hated so long and so much,

That no one cares when he goes, or when he passes



This is the life of a haggard traveler

Let your hatred be your guide and you will

Inevitably, die a broken man, or worse.