INGBOOT

I like to think of myself as a writer, a thinker, a philosopher. But I’m not. I have no title. I’m just me. I wrote the lines below these lines, but I can’t seem to give it an identity. It’s not a poem, or an essay; or maybe it is a poem, or an essay. I found this saved as a word document on my desktop, named INGBOOT - I'm Never Going to Be One Of Them (dont ask!). It started off with a strong stance, until I realized I was stereotyping and talking from the surface. There was no pain, anger or resentment. If you’re expecting depth and revelations from the below words – don’t. If you find similarities or connections – I understand. If you don’t get anything at all – that’s okay, for it was written on (and this is how I had dated it on the original) a cold, boring, Monday morning.

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I’m never going to be one of them.

Them with their five thousand dirham brands,

Shades, bling and high heels.

I’m never going to be one of them.

Them with their done nails,

Hair dyed and bleached.

I’m never going to be one of them.

Them with their fast cars,

Tinted windows and leather seats.

I’m never going to be one of them.

Them with their late night parties,

Non stop drinking and frivolous dancing.

I’m never going to be one of them.

Them with their hair flicking,

Lips pouting, peace signing, puppy eyeing.

I’m never going to be one of them.

Them with their friendly friends,

Friend’s friends, rich friends or wanna-be friends.

I’m never going to be one of them.

Them who reach the top,

Without hard work, dedication or effort.

I’m never going to be one of them,

Them who have people around them,

Because of how they look, what they wear and whom they’re with.

I’m never going to be one of them,

Them who don’t know the value,

Or even the value of value.

I’m never going to be one of them,

Them who say they’re living life,

When they do not know what life they’re living.

I’m never going to be one of them,

Them who try to do the impossible,

Like stopping death and/ or time.

I’m never going to be one of them,

Not because sometimes, I don’t want to,

But because I can never do.

I’m never going to be one of them,

I’m made from the same cloth,

Dust, clay, bone, that everyone is.

I’m never going to be one of them,

They are a niche, a cliché

Made to look like they are everyone.

But they are not everyone.

There is us.

There is me.

All together we make everyone.

But I’m never going to be one of them.

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And now that I read it, I'm not too sure what exactly I was trying to say!