Note: No profile exists for this entry - most likely it was deleted.


I grew up in a country of

                        fish & chips

                    & 9 to 5.

With jet back hair and dark skin

I stood out sorely at school,

                                at work,

                                in the street.


I longed to visit that place, elsewhere,

Which my parents always spoke of.

The place where I would fit in.


Now I am here,

And I did not grow up in this country of

                                                chappatis & dahl

                                            & ooh-rahs & air-rahs.


I stand out sorely at work,

                                on the bus,

                                in the street,

With my too-short hair and my too-light skin.


‘Western immigrant’, they whisper.


It reminds me of that place,

Where I grew up,



◄ Elsewhere

The Wretched Book of Face ►


No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message