These things we hate

I hate the word itself that comes from hate,
the state of the nation feeling late
I hate the smell of cinnamon on my Uncle who is late,
the stench of fear that comes after eight.
I hate the people whose hearts have a gate
those who eat their food and stare at what’s in your plate.
I hate the conscience that has a clean slate
judging the heart and eyes as if they’re both mates
I hate the eyes that check for results before the date.
I can state what I hate, but how about you that see me as bait?

Ruddapoet