I put pen to paper as I try to express my emotions.
I put blade to skin as I try to draw my pain .
I scream and shout as though life would look back and give me another chance.
After relentless echoes of my piercing wail I start to do my ***** laundry on the streets. Society glares at me with utter disgust.
What they see is a figure who does not belong.

I am a man in a foreign place, a foreign object I suppose.
Like a speck of dust I cling onto the open space..
May be someday I might belong somewhere, anywhere but here.
Because this place refused my ***** laundry.