An Observation
this maybe something
paranoid
i just feel that the rest of those
who are there
inside the small circle
closely knitted among themselves
like some design
of a crocheted set of flowers
simply want us
or me
to be like themselves
on a code
of exclusivity or uniformity
i don't like it,
my voice speaks
my fingers hide inside
the pocket of my pants
my conscience sits like
a king
in the throne of my brain
my eyes like a lighthouse
in the middle of darkness
searches
only for my own
lost soul
let me be then
just be myself
unstyled to yours
unkempt like
hair blown
by the monsoon
winds
they say
i am wild and i must have
come
from untamed Siberia
oh!
i do not really mind
i sound like a barbar
i sing like a gypsy
i dance the ethnic
steps
of the nomad
and there is no
land titled
for me
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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