caught between three countries,
and five cultures,
you will always be the outsider,
they said.
you'll always be too Russian
for the Australians,
you'll be too Australian,
for the Russians,
you'll be too British,
for the French,
too similar to 'them',
to be a part of 'us'.
without a homeland,
but with all these homes,
that i cannot call home,
i pledge allegiance to myself,
and all the other outsiders,
who carry home
within themselves,
while they wander
through the world.
YOU ARE READING
n.i.m.b.u.s.
Poetrywords that pour from the veins of the sky. a collection of joyous, soul-crushing melodies, set to the tune of the desert-seaside breeze. //#539 in Poetry [2016.07.10]
