It Must Be

I have to write the following poem for myself.  I may later delete it, but for now it must be.

                         I want desperately to hate,
                              but I have been told and taught
                         by those no  longer here
                               that I must never do that.
                         Hell, can one tell a rainstorm
                                it must not allow the fields
                          to get trampled on and wet?
                                When the deer is confused
                          by the hunter's cruel guns,
                                 Does this confusion protect it
                           with a bullet-proof vest because
                                 it sickens non-hunters like me
                           to see the hanging tongue and
                                 dried blood in an old pick-up
                           as the mighty hunter transports his trophy?
                                 No, good often dies as evil or
                           what seems unfair, lives on and
                                  continues to confuse, but keeps
                           life as we know it continuing in its
                                   unchanging path.