Spill The Poetry: “Souls Of Diaspora”







These are a few of the words

They use to describe the land that holds my identity

The land that holds my family

These are the words that have,

For eighteen years,

Painted a picture in my mind

A foggy, distraught picture

Of what my homeland must look like


I had forgotten

The truth

The reality

For eighteen years,

The only memory

I held close to me

Was the smell of cardamom and gasoline


For eighteen years,

That smell was enough for me

To never give in

To the hate

To the ignorance

To the fear

Of my identity


As my feet hit the ground

After eighteen years of being missing

I realize

I’ve been oblivious


People who have nothing to their name,

They give

People who don’t know what family is,

They love,

People who have no time to waste,

They are patient


The whole world

Deems them as “third world”

Yet they remain




These people

Have sewn their souls into my identity


These people are the truth

These people are the embodiment of love

These people are what other people don’t have the privilege of knowing


It all makes sense

There was a reason all along

As to why my soul felt displaced

And wandering off from this state

It all makes sense.

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