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‘At least your skin isn’t black’ as if that changes anything or makes it better.

I am still as foreign with my white skin. With my ‘funny sounding’ language,

in a country where people don’t understand the concept of knowing

different languages, where they know no other, except for their own.


                                             One. And only.


Where I can’t speak my mother tongue. No one will understand and I might

 even offend someone. Because my tongue is cut in two and sometimes

a word slips and I’ll have to apologize. ‘Sorry’ I’ll say with a smile,

dying on the inside, ashamed. Apologizing for using my language.


                      That’s not what my family taught me.


‘I expected your accent to be a lot heavier’ But you didn’t know

that it took me twelve years to get rid of that accent, the one

I should be proud of.


                                             And I am.


I am proud of my Balkan soul that dreams to go back to the deep salty sea

and the mighty mountains. I miss my small homeland that many

have never heard of. In this flat country I miss the hollows and the heights.

In this country I am foreign.


                                           I am an alien.

alienAngerdeepforeignfree versemelancholy

lies ►


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Martin Peacock

Fri 31st May 2019 08:52

A really good poem, Marina. I can only imagine - very poorly, at that - how it must feel to be thought an 'intruder'. Here we are, on a planet overflowing with human beings and somehow we still contrive to seek difference and division anywhere we look. You describe succinctly, in a forthright way both the frustration of being an outsider and your pride in your identity. I look forward to reading more by you.

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Fri 10th May 2019 16:48

Really enjoyed this. Thought provoking and deep. Thanks for sharing. Tx

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