My skin is black.
Probably blacker than
The hole in my soul.
My hair is natural,
And resistant.
Like young black men
Being arrested by white cops.
My favorite color is black,
Probably because no one hardly
ever likes it.
My skin is black,
And I can't change that.

Here's the thing--
I don't like to lie.
So, if you asked me where I am from,
I'd have to assess you and your prejudices before announcing in a single breath --

"I am a Malayali from Bombay raised in Saudi Arabia."

My identity comes in as a triple threat.
And people treat me like an escaped convict
"Oh, how many burqas do you own?"
"Four, and they're still not enough to save me from your ridiculous questions."

I don't like to lie.
So, I'll tell you I've had a terrible day
and the best thing that happened to me today was lunch.

I will voluntarily admit that my feet hurt in those shoes
And I'd rather be at home.
But, my pen refused to stop writing.

I choose not to wrap my truths in acceptability
Because my identity does not need to be graded
(not like I deserve less than an A+)
I decided to let my bottom sit on a throne in my own mind
Rather than at the feet of self-proclaimed lords of the universe
I'll fix my sights on what's here today.

I'm a queen of my own will;
Of shoes that fit
and jeans that never will.

I am also confused and I write to confuse some more.
Maybe I'll just wrap myself in words
And hand myself over to you and say --
"Congrats! It's a story."

SONG OF THE PAINTER
                       (Dedicated to ...)


My mind swims in the endless sea
Of myriad shapes and colours
A mysterious force guides my hand
To create light,  shade and contours.

The whole universe beckons to me
Its pulse I feel, its beauties I see
I let my fancies roam wild and free
I touch the edge of eternity.

Every stroke of my brush
Vibrates like  a string of my heart
I leap into a kaleidoscopic world-
The Acadian garden of art.

In every shape and colour
An echo of music do I hear
The painter is an orchestrator
Of beauty that is ever sweet and dear.

We look up at the stars and think they're beautiful
But the tragic truth is that most of the stars in the sky are already dead
I guess that's why we leave flowers on headstones
Because somewhere in our history, death has become beautiful