I don’t know how to sing, draw, paint, knit, dig ditches, sleep, so this is the only possible way I can express my sad, bitter feelings. Actually, this is just an idea how one can alleviate some inner turmoil, and no there is no ill animosity whatsoever in this purely fictitious piece:
“A Fake Hate Poem”
Hate.
People, from China to Madagascar.
Hate.
People, from Curaçao to Leningrad.
Hate.
Wait, there is no more Leningrad. So, it’s St. Petersburg?
Not sure.
Well, back to my example poem.
Hate.
Anyone from Kuwait City to Mahboula.
Where is that forsaken place anyway?
Yeah, I hate Mahboula for some reason.
Because it’s only 32.3 kilometres from the capital?
So much jealousy.
We play football against them.
I hate them.
No love, and I promise you. No love.
From Canada to Chile.
I hate all of those C’s, and I still hate Mahboula.
But not all the time.
Just right now.
America. I hate that country.
Except for Las Vegas, and the food on the east coast.
And I’m curious about the Grand Canyon.
But I probably don’t like America anyway.
And I’m not sure what else.
Hate hate, yet sometimes love.
So I’m cheating, right?
No love, I promise you.
As it’s all about hate, and Mahboula I cannot stand the most.
From Tripoli to Singapore.
I hate hate hate.
But I love food, and I love music, and my friends.
I like good movies too, but I hate hate hate.
Mahboula. Mahboula.
Where is that place?
Let’s go there.
I hate hate hate Kuwait City.
Wait, I meant Maboula. Sorry.
Yeah, I don’t like them either. Right?
Hate, hate, and I’m upset.
I just wanted to watch the football match.
That’s all.
And yep, that’s mere creative writing at work. Yet, if you’re still peeved at the world, don’t let it out on others. Channel it in healthier ways.
And I still want to go to Mahboula. Maybe there’s a nice beach where there’s some volleyball?
The King Messiah's Blog 