All your perfect squares and circles line up, like prisoners shackled one behind the other
like dominoes or mosaics or tiles on expensive bathroom walls,
not the kind you find in petrol pump stations or airports or immigration buildings
Then comes along a splurge of me
A boundless, non-conforming freak of clashing culture and ridiculous rhythm to all of you
My sound translates into your snickers and slurred speech
You think I am so slow you imitate drunkards and children
My ****** tongue may tie itself into knots on account of these strange new rhythms
but my eyes see and ears hear just as well if not better
I have what my mother gave me and what she gave to have me here
I am more than one I am my mothers gift to a foreign land
I am may not fit into the box that you have left for me but that is okay
I prefer to bend and shape at will, like the crash and chaos of culture that I am.