I saw it once in a crowded room,
felt it settle under my skin.
Why is there always a line between us?
drawn before we even begin?
A room full of quiet judgment,
eyes measuring who belongs,
whispers dressed as laughter,
turning differences into wrongs.
Names deciding where we stand,
before a word is said,
labels placed like quiet weights
We carry it in our heads.
No one said it out loud,
No rule was ever read,
Yet everyone seemed to understand
who walks ahead, who’s led.
Some stood tall in borrowed pride,
deciding who could stay,
while others learned, in silence,
They were meant to fade away.
And those who heard the mocking tones
carried more than shame,
They built a hurt that hardened slowly,
and learned to hate the same.
A glance that lingered too long,
a smile that didn’t reach,
the kind of quiet cruelty
No one ever has to teach.
As if the bridge was never built,
as if it could not be,
two sides staring through the gap,
at what they’ll never see.
Not distance made of miles,
but distance made of mind,
where even standing side by side
still leaves us far behind.
And those who tried to blur the lines,
to step beyond the claim,
were met with doubt from every side,
and called out all the same.
Not fully theirs, not fully ours,
they stood where none would stay,
banished by both the ends they crossed,
with nowhere left to sway.
They carry truths that can’t be denied,
stories etched too deep,
Yet still are asked to choose a side.
In wounds, they did not heal.
They spoke of something softer,
of bridges yet to be,
But voices caught between the sides.
They are lost too easily.
A cruel dilemma, quiet, sharp
to fight, or to belong,
to hope that something someday shifts,
or feel it’s always wrong.
There comes a moment, still and cold,
where doubt begins to say:
“Perhaps the lines will never fade,
Perhaps they’re here to stay.”
We inherit silent signatures.
of colour, class, and creed,
as if our worth was whispered first,
Before we learned to breathe.
Before we spoke,
before we chose,
before we understood,
We were already placed somewhere.
called lesser or good.
A rule we never chose to make,
yet follow, day by day,
building walls from borrowed truths
We’re somehow bound to obey.
A cruel rule we never made,
yet follow without a sound,
building walls from borrowed truths,
standing firm on fragile ground.
Who gave the right to draw these lines?
to measure, claim, decide?
And even then, why do we still
accept a “higher” side?
Is it because it feels out of reach,
Or something we can’t be?
Or are we simply not at peace
With who we are or see?
No race is born to stand above,
No name is crowned that way,
So why do we still carry on
As if it must be so each day?
If we believe in lesser worth,
Does that not show within
a fragile ground beneath our feet,
a quiet, hidden dim?
And who gave those called “superior”
the right to stand so high,
If all of this were built by us
Then why don’t we deny?
Nature only whispers ‘survive’,
no throne beneath the sky,
a lion hunts, a deer still runs,
But neither asks who’s high.
The forest does not crown itself,
The rivers do not divide,
No creature claims another less.
for how or where it thrives.
Ants will walk their separate paths,
and elephants their own,
Yet difference; there is no wound.
nor something overthrown.
No swan looks across the water.
and decides who can belong,
no borders drawn in silent air,
no quiet, endless wrong.
Bees don’t dream of being eagles,
Nor do the strong declare,
That difference must become a chain.
too heavy to repair.
Yet we divide, then carve again.
smaller pieces of “we.”
Hierarchy within hierarchy
How small do we need to be?
We speak of something whole and shared,
as if it’s always there,
Then split it into small fragments.
until it disappears.
Look closer, no one stands untouched,
The circle never ends,
the one who claims to stand above
is judged again by friends.
The higher mocks the one below,
yet bows to greater gold,
The wealthy are still measured by skin,
by the stories they are told.
And all of them, together still,
beneath another gaze,
reduced to where they come from first,
in someone else’s maze.
And if one gathers all of it
the power, name, and role,
they’re measured still by quieter scales,
by lives they didn’t choose.
No final place of standing still,
no end to where it climbs,
just shifting forms of judgment
repeating through the times.
What are we sustaining here?
A ladder without an end?
Where every step we rise upon
breaks somewhere else again.
What are we fighting for supremacy?
What victory do we see?
Is it worth losing what we are?
just to claim we’re “free”?
What are we protecting then?
What are we trying to prove?
That being born a certain way.
gives us the right to choose?
Shouldn’t pride be something softer?
humanity, love,
happiness that harms no one,
peace, we rise above?
Serenity in letting live,
faith that doesn’t bind,
the quiet strength of doing good,
the courage to be kind.
Not pride in what we never chose,
but pride in what we give,
in how we stand beside each other,
in how we choose to live.
Are we the ones who lost the way?
Or is this all we’ve known?
If nature lives without these walls,
Why build them as our own?
I ask, what are we becoming?
And what should we undo?
If none of us chose where we began,
Why cling to what we knew?
Why cling to lines that cut us all,
Yet claim they keep us whole?
Why build our worth on fragile things
We never could control?
What are we protecting then?
order, fear, or pride?
And what would break if we one day?
just stood side by side?
If none of us chose where we began,
Then why defend the line?
And if we see the fault so clear,
Why can’t we redefine?
WILL THIS REMAIN BETWEEN US, ALWAYS?
. . .
Discus