/lit/ - Literature

Little specks of dust dance across rays of sunlight, forcing their way through cracked panes. The little gay orbs swim along in the air, humming tunes from their youth when they hid underneath the furniture and dared not reveal themselves out of mortal fear. Now they beat their drums and giggle openly and I hate them. I hate them because they're ignorant. They don't belong in a place where people eat, even if this room has long forgotten that purpose. Even if the rooms wallpaper is scratched and faded, the floorboards creak and the outlets no longer work. Even if the room is now just a barrack for men with no place to go, and there's no Christmas Ham or overzealous Italian dinner from a grandmother hanging on to the last vestiges of autonomy before her legs no longer and work and she shrivels up to be contaminated. I hate them all the same. It's not fair that they get to be ignorant of the better days, reflected in every dent in the drywall from when I was a speck of dust, where I told myself that no matter how bad things were they would at least be better in time.

Their flagrant happiness is a direct contradiction to the sorrow that comes with knowing that things didn't get better. I hate hearing them play and laugh and giggle; I hate their ability to make mistakes; I hate their hope for the future; I hate that they love the bus rides; I hate how they have friends; I hate their optimism; I hate the playground across the street; I hate their mothers and their fathers too, for being what I envied and for giving what I coveted; and I hate that they're happy.

Is it ok to be bitter? Am I allowed even that? Who's permission am I seeking anyways. I'll hate because I have to. To keep waking up in this sad house, in this sad little room, and to these happy little specks of dust who kill me without intention.

>people ITT think that a poem can't be bad because of shitty ideation as much as it can be bad because of shitty construction.

I can't believe people think this is a "smart" board.