I hate loving writing but not knowing how to write,
the crack between the idea and me is endless. The gap's
too big, I'm falling in. No one will catch me,
I know.You taught me that. Love lost words slip away. This
business of life is everywhere and every day's the
same, it's so obvious yet so complex, impossible to
explain. Hate being addicted to spilling my soul onto
the paper but not knowing how to spell it. Hate living
the story but not being able to tell it . I hate the
rage that burns inside yet can't make it to the page.
Hate the fact that though they listen they never hear
and that they can't and never will.

Hate the lies that we told and what they did to us,
to our lives. I hate that the needle slips in so
easily and that the pain is only gone for an instant.
I hate not holding you in the morning and not knowing
why love and hate are one and the same. I hate the
phone without your number and the fact that when it
rings it won't be you. Hate being alive yet dead
inside. Hate that a part of nothing is still nothing
and that that's all I'm left with.

Hate filthy hands on our world, suntan that is cancer
and icecaps that melt. Tibet that is China and ripped
up middle east. Hate Burma and the Junta. Damilola's
dead now Madeleine's gone too (hate all the things
they said). Hate the fact that there's nothing we can
do. Hate George and Tony and bloody hegemony. Hate
Africa and poverty and the chasm's that open up
between us. Hate racism and homophobia and hate
itself.Hate being middle class and sensitive and oh
so God damn powerless.. I hate that I only know how to
fight not how to win. Are you winning?

Hate the mirror and what I see there and that there
once was youth. Hate all those lost years, all these
big tears. Hate taking me so serious, like. Raping the
moment as if it didn't matter as if it wasn't all
there is.

Hate lonely London . Constant concrete roar. Morning tube chokes, there's only room in this town for so many suits. Covent garden, Leicester square, mind the gap , Soho circus is drunk as usual and I am not. Hate this empty city that
aches like the words of that last song I wrote for
you. Hate microwave meals for one, shit job blues.
Hate non-stop traffic jam, parking ticket, car crash evening standard news. London where daytime is darker than always night. Hate the constant noise, that cacophony of horns, that drill, that tv that's always on . This town where what I want is not allowed.
Its all too loud. But deafened I sing, I sing and you'll hear, I swear!

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