It's not like I have the plague or anything.
I'm not diseased or disabled, sick or stupid.
I'm not mentally lacking
or physically unattractive.
My ailment is of a whole other pathogenic breed entirely.
I am different. My suffering is the skin I wear;
people look at it as if it's clothing.
If only, it was as easy to shed.
Then maybe I'd fit in,
because inside we're all the same.
I guess that's just wishful thinking, because I know who I am.
I know who I'll be.
The outsider, that's me.
YOU ARE READING
The Outsiders
PoesiaA poetic account of racism in modern day society: shedding light on the situation.
