Outcasts, callused from being in exile for too long, learn to thrive on being the hated; the attention and infamy of our actions fuel us to become antiheroes. Too often do we forget: we risk self-destruction if we fail to follow what we know is right; our talents too often become misplaced, misdirected, misguided from what could have been something wonderful.
Mike NortonTags: talent hate wonderful destruction exile outcast anti-hero
Never so sure our rapture to create
As when it touch'd the brink of all we hate.
Tags: hate satire hatred rapture porup united-states-of-air
Mencoba mengubur kesedihan dengan menimbun kebencian adalah suatu hal yang sia-sia. Semakin kau membenci, semakin erat pula tali kepedihan itu akan melilitmu.
Tanti SusilawatiIf I reveal myself without worrying about how others will respond, then some will care, though others may not. But who can love me, if no one knows me? I must risk it, or live alone.
Sheldon B. KoppTags: wisdom life inspirational love knowledge god hate winning
Even now, Dickon was upstairs, writing sonnets to his new love, while back at Seadown House, Marianne was writing 'Ella' on scraps of paper and then burning them.
Jessica Day GeorgeI could kill you a thousand times over Abraham, but we would never be even. You took everything I had.
Christopher BuechelerTags: love murder hate loss death vampires regret
Hate looks like everybody else until it smiles
Tahereh MafiTags: inspirational love hate dystopia young-adult shatter-me
Actually, this is a poem my father once showed me, a long time ago. It has been bastardized many times, in many ways, but this is the original:
The Cold Within
Six men trapped by happenstance,
in bleak and bitter cold
Each possessed a stick of wood,
or so the story's told.
Their dying fire in need of logs,
the first man held his back
For of the faces round the fire,
he noticed one was black.
One man looking cross the way,
saw one not of his church
And could not bring himself to give
the fire his stick of birch.
The third one sat in tattered clothes,
he gave his coat a hitch
Why should his log be put to use
to warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat back and thought
of the wealth he had in store
And how to keep what he had earned
from the lazy, shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge
as the fire passed from his sight,
For all he saw in his stick of wood
was a chance to spite the white.
And the last man of this forlorn group
did naught except for gain,
Giving only to those who gave,
was how he played the game
The logs held tight, in death's still
hands,
was proof of human sin
They didn't die from the cold without,
they died from the cold within.
For a lot of people, their first love is what they'll always remember. For me it's always been the first hate, and I think that hatred, though it provides often rather junky energy, is a terrific way of getting you out of bed in the morning and keeping you going. If you don't let it get out of hand, it can be canalized into writing. In this country where people love to be nonjudgmental when they can be, which translates as, on the whole, lenient, there are an awful lot of bubble reputations floating around that one wouldn't be doing one's job if one didn't itch to prick.
Christopher HitchensWhy, she wondered, do we always reserve our worst hatred for our own?
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