Rain, here and there

 
The city rain blurs my window,
as I sit caged at work -

Back home, the rain fell different:
still wet, still damp, but alive -
the downpour's song, my mother's voice,
steam curling from our tea -
a warmth that sustains memory.

Same rain, same ache,
but only one place taught the sky
how to feel like home.

Showpiece

the yellow china sets
in my mother's shelf
locked behind glass
not used. not dusted.
just there - to say:
we have this.

I too - the lone foreign face
in a strange town
paraded, trophied,
a token of kindness,
just a showpiece.

years press cracks
into porcelain skin
dust settles, smiles fade
still here, displayed,
never touched, never belonged.

#poem #minority

Rest Is Resistance

They auction your exhaustion,
call it hustle -
but your pulse is a protest song
they cannot copyright.

Let your spine unspool like a ribbon.
Let your thoughts dissolve like sugar
in the tea you sip, unhurried,
while the world screams more.

"Rest is the new productivity" -
lie of the century.
Rest is the end of productivity.
That’s the point.

The most radical thing you’ll ever do?
Nap with the fury of a stopped clock.

#poem