Our kind of pain is obscene
A broth of pride, revenge, relief and sadness
This dolor bellows, it swells day and night
It’s of anger, anguish, disappointment, desertion.
Our pain is silent; it’s our enigma
Daily, we submit everywhere, we bruise our knees, bruise our pale foreheads
but the grief is a tick.
Our kind of pain perturbs, and no one feels it but us;
And who are we, the us, I mean?
Some say it’s the diaspora, but some insist that it’s those in the stew;
Whoever it may be, I know that the caustic aggro befalls all.
Because it’s us, it’s our nation, a withering foliage.
Children can’t play in the streets; schools shelving.
Men are mice; perturbed by the off-color remarks.
Our homes are deserted, families like chicken in rain.
Our kind of pain extorts the last saps as we near the inauguration.
Our pain, this twinge slays
But you don’t care about it,
If you’re not us; the disintegrating polity.