Own Poetry English

I, Misfit


In a big, grand, happy family,
With women cooking lovingly,
Children playing merrily,
Men coming back home after a hard day of work,
Being treated royally.

Fretting over the patriarchy,
The mundaneness of life,
And the narrowness of mind.


In the corridors of power,
With men trampling on whoever they can,
And women striving to catch up,
To make it in the world of men.

Fretting over the privilege
Taken for granted; and judgment
On the less endowed flying about.


On the roads, behind sloganeers,
Activists in black armbands, determined,
Convinced of their worldview,
Noble, but flawed and incomplete.

Fretting over the lack of nuance,
The disregard for the truth,
In search of revolution.


In the streets on the city fringes,
Smelling thick of sweat, alcohol, cynicism
Of drugs, of lives languishing,
Of hopelessness, dead rebellions against the system.

Fretting over the futility,
The pointlessness, the waste,
Misfit – even among the misfits.

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