this is my introduction to something i never wanted to make up

something that needs makeup

to hide all the rust it built up

in the winds of an apocalyptic sky

see, there i go again, with the same jargon, the same death-comes-for-all

i’m so sick of my own talk

i’m so thirsty for new words that don’t sound like mine

for words that don’t find ****** rhymes

for voices that don’t herald the end of days

because my eyes don’t see what’s really real

they’re seeing only what is metaphorical

what is above is not a stalagtite sky

and what is between my toes isn’t the smell of rot

and my flesh is not actually decaying

the way i feel my soul has been

see, i started out trying not to be me

to conjure something that changes me

but this identity comes down like a deadweight

tied around my straining neck

screaming in my ears, words

words in my head, it’s all too much

it’s all too real

get out

Love has some wonderful properties.

It makes you something you're not. It makes you sane and insane. It makes you humane and inhumane. It makes you sighted and blind. It makes you overly rational or illogical. It makes you somewhat childish when nothing matters. It makes you extra jealous when there's nothing.

It makes you do things you don't do. It makes you prosecute and judge your defendant, or it makes you defend your lover. Perhaps the other way around. It makes you commit ******. It makes you commit suicide. It offers you identity crisis to a certain extent, but also enough motivation, will, and power to ****, just a little, somehow.

Who am I? Who am I, now? Who was I? And, who are you? Whose side are you on?

On that note, all it would take is but a feeble breeze to knock me off the edge so that I fall into endless tar. I shall sink, effortlessly, whether voluntarily or involuntarily, as the thick, obscure liquid engulfs and swallows my entire being, slowly and gently, until I'm out of breath, and perfectly erased from this world without a trace of ever having lived.

I remain puzzled by my own puzzles,
of pieces the universe strung together through its orbits,
of the shades of blue and pink and steel grey it painted
on my wrists and my cheeks and my tiny feet
for there is no reason why I should crave silence,
yet my ears thirst for it, and the noise of life too
I long to let loose, yet I keep my chest sewn shut
I have so much to say, but speaking drains me
because the warm and the cold runs and spins and stirs
and standing here, I remain confused
as I wonder what to be
and wander through the land and sea
searching for who to be.

Who am i?
It a question that stumps me all the time,
I am a girl..........i know that much i think
Sometimes i am sweet, other times bitter as lime.

I believe i am sane,
I mean insane,
Honestly, Its all the same.
But who am i?

I am mistreated because i am not like others,
I am different they say,
What's wrong with that?
Isn't that a good thing?
I don't know i guess we must all be the same in every way.
I might be that one rare black rose stuck in the thorns that no one bothers to touch because its too much work to get it out,
But i hope i am special too,
Who am i?


A girl going through identity crisis,
Her emotions shattered like broken pieces,
There's no dry places left to cry,
Who am i?  

                                                               ­                                  Jonesy 2016©

(For context, I went to...)
British Kindergarten in England,
French Elementary in Switzerland,
International MS in England,
French HS, then Int'l HS in Korea,
(And then completed...)
Undergraduate studies in NJ, USA,
9-month gap year in Hong Kong,
Graduate studies in QC, Canada.

--------------------------------------------------------­----

I have shattered my identity.
Frequently. Involuntarily.

I have undergone assimilation.
Socially. Psychologically.

I have encountered discrimination.
Directly. Racially.

I have endured isolation.
Grievingly. Impotently.

I have ill-wished on others.
Subconsciously. Unintentionally.

HOWEVER –

I have learned to be human.
Individually. Collectively.

I have discovered empathy.
Emotionally. Compassionately.

I have gained knowledge.
Culturally. Geographically.

I have acquired expertise.
Intellectually. Linguistically.

I have become a citizen.
Locally. Globally.

Perhaps we who are born and meant to move,
Are intended to, and exist to locomote forever,
Walking lands, sailing oceans, mastering the world.

I’ll live my life in a way that
no people will notice my absence
that no people will care about my presence

I’ll live my life in a way
I’m just a floating spirit -
I’ll come and go, just like the rain

Rain because
I still want be to
of a certain burden;

Rain because
you’ll still see traces of me
even though I’ve stopped coming

And then
I’ll evaporate
no longer nuisance

But I’ll remind you
from time and again
through my resonance

And on certain days
you will love me

And on most days after
you will miss me better

In a relationship
I'm not equipped
I'm too empathic,
The change is drastic
When in a union
I become a chameleon
I adapt
Till I'm trapped
I give to live
Until I find
My mind
Is gone again
I push away
My love it strays
In a daze
Stumbling
Fumbling
We're done
I run
To find clarity
My identity
Alone
At home
I yearn
To learn
Solidarity
Sincerity
For me
To be
Able to see
Entirely
My identity
As a singular
Entity
You see
It's not you
It's me
That needs
Protection
From your affection
That I lose
When I choose
Not to mingle
I need to be
Single

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."