itchy fingers

It is so awesome to come back home to jelly beans and water, fiest playing on my audio player, a great way to return home. Anyway tomorrow I will be going off to pulau ubin, which is rather erm anti climatic but nevertheless it is a holiday and holidays mean, no handphones, no electronics, not even my trusty ipod. Just the sky, sea and the company of my family.

I am also suffering from itchy fingers syndrome!!!! i think it is from the absence of writing poetry Gah I want to write but I just cant, like today I tried to pen a poem for my friends and the words just could not come out!!! so frustrating!!!

Rebellion

It is within the power of writers and artists to do much more: to defeat the lie!"

Finally not blogfaded.

Finally I am back on my blog, which is amazing to me and feels different.

So much has changed in 2010 and my second year of writing that I can barely describe. I have been published by Ceriph, a Singaporean arts magazine and hopefully I trust that I would also be published in "coast" as well. Anyway I am back to blogging and ranting which greatly pleases me.

Also much has changed in the friendships over the past year. You could say that it matured, but I still want it to stay at the baby stages where we just are interested in what each other is doing and not as familiar. Perhaps that is impossible. Anyway there are friendships that I think I am clinging too tight to, and probably suffocating the other person so I am letting go now.

Right, I will continue blogging and hopefully revive my old rants.

Today I bought the Shift calendar!!!

and it is beautiful! It is made up of new artists on the block and have competed against other artists to be featured in it. Most of them are below the age of 35 which I find very amazing because it is sold ALL OVER THE WORLD and they are young artists waiting to develop into full bloom!

Poem

This is a piece of poetry that I wrote cos i was rather ticked off by people saying that poetry is only for a specialised group of people ... and not the common man. Also i was rather annoyed by people claiming that they cant be bothered to post up poems is because of theft... please... Why is poetry so confined? it is as though it is trapped and restrained by poets and the reader alike... and this is not the way it ought to be. Poetry ought to be accessible, reader friendly, and the poet must not be afraid bout small matters such as poem theft... these will eventually cause poetry to be overly unique and will kill the love for poetry.

This is a piece which i thought of... called: Impromptu Op. 3, the case for poetry.

I am a piece of wood,
given a face of words,
they are etched like deep cuts that permanently tattoo my surface.
Then they begin to paint me,
caressing my body with the brushes of foxes and badgers
adorning it with a coat of black paint,
tainting my flesh.

Then with a single slam they transfer my mirror image
onto a clean sheet of paper.
Staining it with blots of meaningless ink.
then picking me up
he binds us all together,
cramming us into this cage of bound paper
adorned with a façade of cardboard.

Like a dove trapped in a cage,
I die, slowly on the shelf, caked with dust
and the magical silver threaded cobwebs.
Waiting, waiting... that day will come when I am free

No longer bound by the useless binds which hold me back
throwing off these chains, of propriety and property,
I belong to no one.

I am a piece of poetry, as free as can be,
but now, here on this shelf
I can only wait, to be let free
like a genie.
____________________________

1st year anniversary

I am celebrating my first year in writing on the 24th February. So far i have written at least 150 pieces of poetry. So what got me writing? haha! well it was a crush and so I needed to write away this crush, so i wrote my first piece, HEAVILY influenced by Plath, most of the images are really not great, but as a first piece i think it suffices. So as a countdown ... this is my first piece of poetry:

Lights, we enter as one,
Leave apart, together
A shadow one of the other.

Fleeting fox, fly away from the
Broken man who
Sits alone
Staring with cats eyes.

Pink, a nasty colour, an ecstacy, the multi
Coloured dots, a kaleidoscope of
Obsession.

An awful colour Pink is, to think that
I could be a
Breeze, in your hair on a mid-summers day.

I can never be
So I rather be , a leaf
You trod on with your petit feet and small frame
Pressure intense.

Dark, so true
Light, A liar, concealing a
Poor, poor, sorrow Hate
Light Dark Grey
A contrast.

A stage, A maid
A man laid out, open and
Instead
Let him
Fade
My Shadow.
_________________________________________________

Ranting ... :D first rant of 2010

Well it has been a really long time that I have ranted and there is so much built up angst against everything that it is beginning to hinder me from doing stuff that I really do take pleasure in such as writing, playing music,and just sitting there with the great minds of the past in my hands in print. So I really need to just rant about stuff here... :P So here goes, I don't know where this will lead, but we all need to jump off the cliff once in a while.

Firstly is Drama, currently I am involved in Drama, EVERYDAY, yea i know. But I have taken a new love towards drama, and also I am living out what I had proposed that people should not do what they are not willing to do for free. Yea come to think of it again it sounds really elitist, but at the same time it kinda does make sense. The only problem, is that who would be willing to work in a garbage dump for free? Well.. I truly have no idea, but there are people out there with the desire to do these kinda things, like I would love, LOVE to be a florist, and i would even do it for free, only if I could find a place to slog amongst the flowers :D... stunning! Back to my main topic, new love for drama. So what is this new love for drama? I have begun to have a great disdain for people that are FORCED to act, cos then there is no passion and everything is just so plastic, and along with that, my dears, ENERGY is important. I have been working with my old school, i their drama productions and I can see what passion about being a character can bring, and it can truly change the face of the play. The script are the words, but the person breathes life into these words, kinda like God creating the world... Awesome eh? being God for several minutes or hours... Anyway drama is one really awesome thing to be involved in, i really don't know why but it just makes me feel happy inside, even just to stand there and look at how the actors practice their lines makes me happy to be there, i know you now think I'm crazy... haha! ... don't worry you are not the only one :D But I love drama and there is nothing you can to do take me away from performing! Like the Bard said, all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely actors.... In our already overly OVERLY busy world, we must take time to sit back and truly enjoy what we do.

Poetry, haha! this is fun to just randomly talk bout stuff... yea talking about poetry, it is really really fun to listen to your own poetry, and re read what you have composed, it is so so FUN... especially when you know that you have taken extreme effort in writing that piece, even if people hate it, you will love it because of the effort put in... Coming up on my 1st year of writing poetry, I remember what got me started writing, the Lolita saga... haha! who could forget, nonetheless I guess there was some divine plan to allow the lolita saga to develop my style of writing, and allow me to practice alot, till the current stage that I am at... not great but... something that I can enjoy. Writing poetry is like magic, where worlds are created from words which form up in my head. At times it is to relive angst which I did at the beginning of my writing life, and at other times, it is cos we feel something or we see something that we usually see... it is truly amazing, something lovely to do. if you want to know more just read my other rant bout poetry and why it exists. Poetry is the language of love as said by Darcy in P&P, hmmm haha! but I have not found the ONE which I truly love, I guess being roughly fluent in this "language of love" is not really helping haha! ... well we shall see in the end shan't we? ...

Love, who do I love? haha! well that is a difficult question to ask me, cos it is easy for me to say whom I have a dislike for but to love? It is a hard question for me. I know the first person that comes to mind is ironically, not my best friend though he is extremely important to me and a great bro to me, but instead, it is definitely Madam Jiang! you may think it is absurd but it is true. I was thinking about this for several days as I was clearing out my memory box (box that i keep many things, like notes, or special presents, from special people in my life) It was then that I took out my zhuo wen book that was written all over by my lao shi. sigh... it means so much to me, I mean yea, I don't show it at times, but it does not mean that I don't appreciate it LOADS. So why do I love her, firstly cos she is truly sincere, what she says she means it with all her heart. Like for JC 1 I really really really hated being in school, I hated it cos, I was not in a awesome school, but kinda like the backwater and relegated to something less than what I wanted. So of course I hated JC1 life, and worse I had to take Chinese, something which I truly was not fluent in and my secondary school had made me dislike the subject thoroughly. But from the moment I saw lao shi and from day one when I did my work, she encouraged me, she said things that I felt meant alot to me, like she always said that I could do it. I mean WHO on earth can say stuff like that to a person that seems to have the least chance of doing well in the subject? I mean teachers are likely to push those which are awesome in the subject and just push them to get their A's. But she was different, and it made me begin to find meaning to come to school. It motivated me to study for Chinese, something which could never happen in Secondary school. There seems like there is so little I am saying here, but to say everything would probably take all night so I shall summarize. Briefly, Madam Jiang was a teacher that believed in me even when it seemed impossible, she taught with all sincerity and did not once see the limitations in any of us but always saw the potential that we all had, even when there seemed like there was no hope. She encouraged and pushed us till the end, and even when we were stubborn she was patient with us, teaching us to be strong no matter how difficult the circumstance may be. So why do I love Madam Jiang? well It is because of the way she loved us no matter how we were. :D So who do I love? I love those that loved me first haha! so egoistical I know, but we need one to love first... before the other reciprocates... So what we must learn is to love first and not be afraid if the person does not reciprocate, but take the chance to love first and just jump cos love is about taking the risk and just staking it all even when you know you may lose it all. <3

What is the meaning of life? what is the meaning of our being on earth? Millions have asked these questions... and I have the answer. It is not the Best answer that we all look for... but this is it. What is the meaning of life? Well life is about living on the edge! it is about taking life everyday in out hands and moulding it to what we can be. Christians like to always ask what is God's will for this or that... not just Christians but also other religions... STOP ASKING! cos what difference will it make? it is not that God will take a lightning bolt and strike you if you don't do his will! He is God, and if you believe your God is truly GOD... then what you choose will he not bless you in doing it? I am not advocating that we have NO values, but to keep asking God for what is his will in this or that, when it is not gonna do you much harm sometimes God says : your choice. So what is life about? Life is about jumping off the edge and taking the plunge even when you can't see the bottom! It is about saying what we feel and not repressing it all, it is about seeking out the Best that life can bring, it is about living abundantly, and living everyday like it is our last. My friend was asking so how? her special day with her boyfriend if he is not there on the day itself? Well i told her that it would not be any less special. We make the days of our lives special and unique, we are the ones that change the fate of our universe, we are not doomed from the beginning, but we are a people that can make choices, there is no predicted future... the future is ever changing according to the choices we make, and even when bad ones are made, we suffer the bad to understand what the good is eventually in our lives after the bad has passed. Even if it is cancer, and we suffer till death, we can die knowing that our reward is that peaceful death and relief from the pain of this world. We all go through bad, to understand what good feels like. We all make mistakes eventually... we all will fall one day but how quickly we pick ourselves up after that is another story. So one thing I leave with you, Live life dangerously, live life enjoying the people around you, enjoying the things you do cos if you hate it all then life would seem pointless and bleak all the time and it is not worth it to throw life away to such things. Don't waste your life away, live it knowing that in the end we are not remembered by what we are, but what we DID, and the more we do to change our world, the better the future we can create. So that's all I have: so what is life's purpose?

TO STRIVE! TO SEEK! but not to Yield!

Poem

Yea yea i know you're sick of it already... but since I have had alot of time to myself, I decided to write poems daily :D Come to think of it when you pen poems daily there is less chance of my muse toddling off into the sunset... so to keep my muse amused ( :O rhyme!!! :O) writing is an essential ... so here is a poem that I composed after thinking of Robert Lowell's Epilogue which is awesome by the way cos the Moderns are awesome! nuff said... here is the poem called :

___Eulogy___

There was nothing nice to say,
I ran out of the flowery words that are
usually so easy to word.
So I stared out in to the crowd,
all dressed in black, like crows circling round the dead.

Crowds make me nervous.
Everyone sat on the pews as I made my way up the pulpit
looking at their plastic faces
all sombre, holding back their laughs.
Laughs that once were shared with the one now lying in that bed of clouds.

No one celebrates a funeral.
We "attend" a funeral
however at this function, the principle host is in a shoebox
and we do not greet with happiness
but rather with mournful looks and grim dispositions.

I stood there,
dead in my tracks, as all eyes began to focus on me
dressed like a hippie.
Now I know what it is to die,
with those old fogies, staring up, down at you.

So I begin...
stuttering. Barely making it through a single sentence.
Before saying the cliche line : " I remember R------- she was..."
and on and on.
And on and on.

This Eulogy must eventually end,
like the ink in my pen,
eventually dried up.
Shrivelled in a wooden box,
locked up in heaven somewhere

on a cloud somewhere.

Poems, life in a bottle

___Life in a bottle___

Life in a bottle was green and sort of round.
Everything had a curved surface, there were no corners
like the Blue globe sitting on my desk,
spinning round and round, Never ending.

The eternal spiral of the earth,
like an embryo curled up in the womb.
Eternally alive, eternally dead,
drowning in the green placenta and water.

Like a ship in a bottle,
trapped inside. Waiting to be
released upon the world, waiting for my adventure.
Waiting in a sickly green light

without colour.
Without Black and White
without Orange sunrises,
without Crimson sunsets,
without Blue skies, dabbed with White albatross overhead,
fighting over fishes of Silver thrown back from
the Black nets of the fishermen
dressed in Yellow hats and Brown aprons.

Without Corners,
Without Oblong shapes,
where works of Lines exist.
But sitting there all i can see is
round and round and round and round
like the carousel of human existence:
nine to five office work,
taking the subway to work,
staying up late nights checking emails for work,
preparing for meetings at work,
"I cannot stay, I have work "
"No sex tonight, I'm tired from work", working
with our green tinted glasses, we work to make money.

Green money, with pictures of little green men,
and numbers so we can count them when we play Monopoly.
Green money,
green the eye of envy and crime,
green the subway line that takes me from Wall street back home everyday.
Green suits and ties that we put on
for board meetings to
earn more of that
green paper to put on our
green paper masks that we wear to work.

Green how detestable! How Obscene!
I will stand it no longer!
I want to break this bottle!

Smash the windows at Wall street!
Smash the glass of the Temple of trade!
Smash the heart of Capitalism, and Communism, and every other -ism!
Smash the Cash Register!
Smash the Banks that are going bankrupt anyway!
Smash the computer with on-line banking, crediting and debiting
on my screen in tiny words of green green green.
Smash the NASDAQ!
Smash the Dow!
Smash the Federal Reserve!
Smash it all NOW!

Yet I am trapped in this bottle ruled by the Green Monarch,
with hands, eyes and feet (like Big Brother) so real, they could catch
and place you behind bars
black and white!

Black and White.
Pen in Black and White on this paper,
bright as the eye of day,
the eye that stares down the bottle
and consumes me in its gaze.

There I lay, there! Naked and bald, arms stretched out like a Raven,
ready for flight.
And my first flight is into loves outstretched arms
and to rest in her bosom, like a young sweet babe in her mother's arms.

To dream of colour and
dream of rhyme and
dream of everything divine.

"Rest now my love, rest"
___________________________________________________________

Poems

_____ impromptu Op. 1_____

Precariously I walk this trail,
careful to tread, careful to
prevent black cats from crossing my path.
A trail of a hundred steps walking pass and
seeing only broken pasts and empty tomorrows.

Of useless words, and unsaid things,
and lack of sincerity and propriety.
And yet we cling on, like silly monkeys
holding on to branches.

And yet in the even, it is what we choose to
let go, and what we choose to cling onto.
I cling unto you: my love.
__________________________

_______Train Rides________

They are as they are, sitting in the subway
passing stations to get near and afar.
The hard acrylic seats that warm after 30 seconds of sitting
and the hand rails that are
absolutely useless in hindering me from falling over.
Like tectonic plates the train rattles back and forth,
wishing for me to fall.

Announcements being made
in a English vernacular which
I am unable to comprehend.

Sitting here by the door,
commuters coming and going,
station after station,
like a parade of different nations.
Black, Yellow, Red, White
of different shapes and sizes.

Yet we are here, united, 6 feet underground
in a coffin, a grave on wheels.
Eventually we will all eventually end up,
like a hamster, dead in a box.
_________________________________

_______Impromptu Op 2.________

Lyrical and completely hysterical
are the poems which one pens
of love and the droll affair of affection.

What be love and affection,
if my words did not match my actions?
What be love
if my heart be untrue and only
deception is what you know as truth?
What be love
if the waking moments of my day
were ne'er thoughts of you?
But of the mundane in yesterday's newspaper.

What be love, and what be the words that I write?
Do they coincide? Or perhaps just divide.
I know not, but as I say, what words can split the heart?
I love you
(just not from the heart)
____________________________________________

Poetry and the reason it exists ...

Coming up on my one year anniversary of writing poetry, I have come to realize that there are many things that I have come to realize, poetry is not out there to impress... Personally my goal of writing poetry is to depict what man is in life, what man truly goes through, the struggles, the happy moments and the different emotions that we all have. Being human as well, of course I go through some of these moments, however we can't go through everything, so that's where engaging people helps.

Poetry, has definitely evolved since, Cadman's hymn, and definitely changed since Lewis Caroll's Jabberwocky and Poe's Raven, even when Howl was called the poem that defined the century, we are still evolving, and now the moderns sit on our shelves as Classics. So how is the face of poetry going to change, to tell you the truth I have no idea. But everyone is trying their own style, and trying to experiment, so I guess like music, we have entered the era of the experimental.

Every poet writes to change the reader, to make the reader feel something. We do not write to just be, but rather to cause change and to make people see things in a light they have never seen before. Poets are the eyes of the socially blind unable to see past their 9-5 concrete walls, the ears to the socially deaf society open to noise pollution everyday, and the mouth to the street urchins and outcasts that roam the street wishing for a better tomorrow. We do not write to be praised nor to be merited with the Pulitzer prize, but we write because we are not ashamed of our art, and no matter what people say about it we will not be affected by it. Poetry is a difficult job, and what we try to achieve in that few stanzas can either change the world, or just be another poem that is amongst the hundreds.

One thing that I have a general dislike is that people that see poetry as an easy task. It frustrates me because composing a GOOD piece of poetry takes effort, takes ALOT of editing, and many hours poured over the piece, till the poet feels satisfied. Poetry cannot be just thrown out there in the world, without a re reading. I have been depressed for weeks, I have cried and have staked out nights to come up with a piece of poetry that I feel satisfied with. That's why I don't care much for criticism, because I write for no audience, I write so that I am at peace with myself. Even if my poetry is run through the mud, I know the amount of work I have put into it, and if it has not been enough I know too...

Alike with music, PEOPLE WHAT ON EARTH?! Lady Ga Ga and all sorts of new artists are flooding the market with riff raff. Today I managed to hear a good artist and his music is good, not like the common lyrics. Lyrics to me are the most important part of the song, mainly because I see musicians as poets, that are able to compose music with lyric.If the lyrics sucks, and the music does not even fit the mood of the words then the song is ridiculous and absurd. Well identical to poetry, if the form and the structure of the poem does not even befit the words which are in the poem then it is equally useless, it is akin to listening to the lyrics of a ballad but the music is death metal... it does not make sense. Because it does'nt make sense, it does not have the effect it desires.

Poetry, exists because we as humans do. The excitement of poetry comes when there is a surge in your hand as you pen down words that were never thought of. When words flow like a babbling brook, and where things not commonly seen in our busy lives can be brought out in words. Poetry is a picture in words and how lively that picture can be, depends on the poet. But one thing that we must have in our conviction is that conviction to write write and write, and never give up. Poetry teaches us how never to give up when the going gets tough especially when another good poem does not seem like it is in sight.

Like Tennyson said in Ulysses,

We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

What Tennyson is saying here, which I am ripping off from Kesley Grammer, is that while it is tempting to play it safe, the more we are willing to risk the more alive we are. In the end what we will regret most are the chances we never took...

There I leave you with a quote from the Bard,

So long as man can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long live this, and this gives life to thee.

Ok forget that i thought of doing this

haha!!! about the poetry that I was supposed ot pen throughout the night... well I'm dead beat and really need to rest so... do pardon my overly enthusiastic self that tried to pull this trick off... well its half past 2... I need rest... so I bid thee adieu :D and Bonne nuit !

Pagan Mass

Tonight I'm depriving my body of sleep, to write... so this is a preliminary poem that I wrote at 1am plus...
Will clock in a poem every hour... so here is the first one of the twilight hours... Here I present the

____Pagan Mass____ (this is not meant to be blasphemous)

What is this? By the pricking of my thumbs
Something wicked this way comes.
The Pagan Mass has begun.
Light the fires and let them brew, the fiery stew.
Within this cauldron of pewter made,
throw in clary and sage.
Purify the air around, let there be the singing sound
of the witches rune,
let it be heard on Walpurgistnacht,
let it be heard on Samhain.

Celebrate as we dance round the flame,
where the elements can be alive again.
Singing: Hey ya! Hey ya!
under this canopy of oak, which spoke to me of many things
while there be the playing of the strings on lute and zither run.
Toying back and forth.
Hark! there be the sounding of a drum.
They encircle, around Priest and Priestess.
Chanting out in rhyme and tune,
singing, feasting, seeking the power of la lune.

Why, by the pricking of my thumbs
something wicked this way comes.
________________________________________________

Poem

I don't know about you but dying is a scary thing, to go into that eternal slumber, and just lie there turn cold and just enter into that life which we believe to be eternal, an eternal dream. So here is a poem to imaginary worlds... when your eyes open tomorrow, will you still be alive?

__________Imaginary worlds__________

I died.
It was not a spectacular death, just that I appeared in the papers the following day
DRIVER KILLS 2, MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
Then I went beyond our world, to Paradise.
Paradise is nothing amazing, it is just an endless beach
going on and on for eternity. Eternity, that's what I was promised,
in church every Sunday, never seeing who I was going to meet on the other side.
It is always sunset here in Paradise, and the waves
dusted with the sun's orange rays.

Walking along the seaside I saw my past flash before my eyes,
my old teddy bear that had been torn apart at Christmas during a fight
sat on the beach washed up by the waves.
Soon many things came up, from the water.
I too came from the water, bubbling out clothes,
and many items but people, there were none.

The beach was empty for miles, and for miles it went on and on.
Turning back, my past was behind me and it littered the beach.
The sand turned a rough with the items etched into in
things that I had sent here.

Suddenly the sky grew dark, forced down my throat,
oxygen. Wait. I was there on my bed, dark,
the clock in the corner read half past four.
Everything was silent, like the beach in Heaven,
eternally silent.

My life as a poet :)

This is a poem that I have come up with after writing for about one year... I tried a hand a developing my own style so here goes... be nice :D

__________Untitled 6___________

Here I frame myself, in steel bars.
This self portraiture, like the enigma of the mona lisa.
Always smiling, always photogenic,
yet she is only the veil to the hard wooden surface beneath.
Only wall paper, a mere mural.

Here, I prostitute myself,
this art of mine, where words blend with '
an infusion of wine and veiled by the paradise-ian clouds
of tobacco. A drunken debauchery.
O Babylon, Babylon.

I am the depths beneath the waves above.
I am the roots beneath the green.
I am the wall behind the wall paper.
I am the bright light bulb behind the ignoble rays.
I am the body behind the words.

The bars are only holding me back.
I am only painting an orgy.
My job as a poet, don't try to
stop me.
_______________________________

HAITI

This poem is kinda in reaction to the haiti earthquake that was a terrible disaster...


---Hate---

Hate, the plosive sound of the word
makes me spit.
The undeniable fact that human kind is
built on a single syllabic foundation.

We hate our jobs, the 9-5
mundane routine, hate mondays
going back to school, hate tuesday, the
blues, and all other days of the week we just hate.
We hate our friends, hate the obnoxious neighbour beside our door,
we hate eating, drinking, living on the edge of life,
We hate every waking moment of day,
hating and detesting even the day we were born.
We hate the multitude of knowledge,
we hate the endless television shows that appear on the glass screen
believing in illusions unseen
we hate being fooled, and yet we do it deliberately.
Hate hate hate, the colour of skin, the eyes that we wear,
the mouth that speaks so foolishly
we hate the nose, the breast, the nip and tuck surgery
we had last week.
Yes, I hated it, looking at the mirror,
a plastic concoction.
We hate slowing down, speeding up,
always a criticism always another smart ass that has another thing to say
again and again, the endless cycle of life
hating spring summer autumn winter,
hating the day and night
the first Creation in sight is appalling and detestable.
We hate the blacks, the whites, the yellow and red skinned people.
We hate the Neo Nazi's and the Witches, we hate the
religious clergy and the Pontif.
We hate the Capitol, from Washington to Obama, we hate
Guantanamo Bay, we hate Iraqi's
We hate terrorists, and now Muslims (somehow they are intrinsically connected)
We hate and hate, Twilight, we hate legendary authors,
We hate America, Europe and Asia, we hate the MNC's and the taxi drivers
we hate trade unions, and capitalism and communism, and every -ism there is we hate.
We hate unity, we hate division,
We are always trying to be unique and individual
and yet we share one thing in common,
hate.

What is hate? when your house is blown down by the wind,
when the days have come where there is no shelter overhead,
when the earth shakes and rocks till you have woken up
when the neighbour's dogs start barking
when the waves start rising
when the people start crying
when the father's mother's sisters brothers lay there dying
on the island shore
when trees lay dead on the road
when pavements are strewn with debris
when the hospitals, markets, and everything is reduced to a ground zero.
when the houses collapsed like in 9/11
when my hotel crumbles as I pen this note.

what is hate to me now?

A four lettered, single syllable word
on page 334 of my dictionary.