What makes you better than me?
Nothing special that I can see.
Privilege isn’t a pedigree,
So spare me your kingly decree.

You don’t know the monster in me—
Scratching at the skin, something ghastly.
Keep prodding and I think you’ll agree,
That you may want to rewrite that policy.

So open your eyes and look at me.
Your world is a broken fallacy—
Me and my kind the painful reality,
That will overthrow a dynasty.

In a sea of gray skyscrapers and concrete,
The familiarity of suburban row houses,
Screeching subways and honking cars,
A little quiet doesn’t exist.

No giant sequoias or wildlife here,
But the charming London planes
Scattered across the streets
Offer some green.

Within this steel metropolitan glamour,
Pockets of peace can be found,
In the space of a small yard,
Beside a sapling fig tree.

As the wind blows on a restless summer eve,
The susurrus of leaves and twigs
Create a soundscape redolent
Of the distant forest.

The mighty hand that falls,
Crushing hope and any fight.
Phantom terror seeps into the bones
—paralyzing—distorting—numbing—

A warm day: bright sun, cloudless sky,
Children’s laughter as they run,
Chasing monsters and demons,
A day lost long ago.

From within a storm brews,
Spinning fury and anguish,
That nothing from without
Can possibly contain.

Fear lodged in the throat,
Smothering a voice.
A body breaks and heals,
This rebel rises again.

A man in a suit, neat Oxfords, crisp shirt,
Saunters down the street, a giant flirt.
Checks his watch, a glittering metallic eyesore,
He grins with arrogance oozing from every pore.

He shakes his wrist again to flaunt that watch,
The reflection blinds a woman, whose purse meets his crotch.
He screams, and she then screams—
Karma delivers beyond my wildest dreams.