Hatred

The thin cold fingers seep through every chunk in the soul,
Hatred of a high degree, much hidden by concerned words,
Much disguised by painted smiles and sharp insults,
For you to swallow and digest like those bitter pills daily.

Whom shall you trust in these times of embittered silence,
For each and every shoulder listens and remembers all,
To spring sudden surprises at a relaxed carefree self
That somehow is taken aback by the venom of words.

The venom of words that you spit when you are angry,
The tone of voice that carries deep dislike and jealousy,
One wrong word somewhere and you are driven again,
Once more into these same alleys that witness fights.

For a hatred of a higher degree bad words aren't enough;
It requires the art of cleverly wrapped insults and smiles.