They see my starched white linen
And my custom leather shoes:
Another White guy, they think
And don't hold my glance
They make way for me
So that their dark hungry frames
And their smelly patchy clothes
Don't invade my privileged spaces
Nothing from their struggling beings
Should waft into my being
And fight my Davidoff.
Even their children
A ball of unkempt hairs and leaky nose
Rarely return my smile
This land that I walk on
Is not my land
It is their land
The land of the slowly dying
And the barely living
I should be dead
For the unforgiving sin
Of merely being alive.
As long stretches of empty cranes stood waiting, for the last of the Ganesha's to bid adieu, I felt my eyes welling up from a sadness th...
You don't have to tell me. I just know. Its that little sniffle that comes through The unexplained pauses The slow responses I know...
If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes o...
Not all days are the same. There are those nameless faceless ones that are born out of ennui and quickly fly into oblivion. Nothing good com...