No One Really Matters
Hate, that which dwells inside.
Laughter, the place where hate can hide.
Joy, the turning of the hand.
One eye's kindness, the other eye's maddened man.
Pain, the palm that reaches out.
Spite, the knife that cuts the hand.
The words, the way to wash away the feelings deep inside.
The thoughts behind the laughing face,
where a hateful man does cry.
P. J. Campise
