I hate Chinese New Year.
I hate it.
I hate it so much.
I love my culture.
I am proud that I am Chinese.
I appreciate my roots.
But I hate Chinese New Year.
I hate it so.
What else is there to this festivity besides the lash of her tongue upon my open wounds,
Cruel words uttered one after the other,
And the reminder that you're worse than excrement?
Could you understand?
I hate Chinese New year.
I hate it.
But hate is such a strong word,
And it's a word I refrain from using.
But oh, for Chinese New Year,
Hate is the word.
Who are you?
What do you know?
You think you know.
But this pain of mine.
No one will ever know.
Perhaps.
As we crowd around the steamboat as how our ancestors have,
we'll forgive and forget?
Perhaps.
I have a similar thing going with St Patrick's Day. But what do you hate? Is it the commercialism? A memory?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Memories of being trashed yearly because of unfufilled responsibilities, the way people are so superficial towards one another. I respect the culture and traditions very much, but it's sad that many things done are done for the sake of getting them done these days..