Of Unscripted Poems

If only I could find the first 

The line for this poem, I'd write 

It all the way from my wrists 

To the nape of my neck, words so

Strong they'd replace my spine,

My mother says her side of the family 

Has a history of women with 

Chronic headaches and no 

Matter how hard I try to 

Separate my flesh from hers 

Every walk under the sun is going 

To be a game of Russian roulette 

For me, there are pictures she 

Pushed from under my door 

And if I could arrange them 

By the size of happiness, I felt 

In each of them, I would, 

But there are times when I cease 

To remember all the people i 

Was and this, this is one of 

Those moments. 

A family of pigeons once 

Tried to make a nest on my 

Kitchen window sill and it 

Is five years and five 

Families later that I realise 

That home is whatever 

Keeps your things from 

Falling down and by things, 

I mean whatever keeps you 

From having a falling out with 

The rest of the world,

There is nothing easier than 

Leaving a poem half finished 

But there is also nothing harder than 

Stopping in the middle of your 

Sentence because we humans 

Have an extraordinary knack of 

Making sure everything goes our

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way 

Even when it doesn't

If this were a numbered poem 

I'd end it before you get the time

To tell me this is not how it works-

There is a system because the only

Form of anarchy I indulged in 

Was colouring my mountains purple 

But it is now time to bring the 

Guns out, it is ugly out there 

And screw me for wanting to

Forget that our people my 

People feel hiding is smartest 

Way to go my people whom I 

Only recognise by the faint 

Mark years of wearing a bindi 

Left on their forehead my people 

Who have stopped setting up 

Black markets to sell our identity 

Our nation's identity which we 

Borrowed while simultaneously 

Fleeing from everything which made my 

People my people. 

If I were to be completely 

Honest with myself, I'd say 

I'd started out with something

Else altogether but now 

That it has turned into my confused 

Poem my identity poem my 

Introspection poem the poem iI

Never thought I'd write, even if 

Did find the first line for it, I'd write it 

In a ball of used aluminium foil, 

Crumple it, and throw it into 

The sky, these are desperate 

Times we live in, and all I can do 

Is hope that it finds someone 

Too scared to wear their heritage 

Out loud.