Do you know how in soup restaurants

When everyone's done with their meals

And they're all dazed there, crammed to the max

(But they don't want to get up because the air is so fragrant)

And there's always this one person

This one troublemaker

Whose twinkling eyes aren't satisfied with the 

Abandoned concoctions left in the bowls

And they feel a primitive desire to simply

Mix everything into one big bowl

And make one ugly, smelly froth that has everyone

Simply staring?

I get how that soup feels

To be a freak of nature; a wretched mixture

Of utter perfections and yet to be born

A plate of grief and regrets; an amalgamation

Turned out wrong.

I feel warped beyond control, as if

Different cultures and different times and

Different passions and different rhymes decided

To make me their experiment.

And just like the poor, detestable froth in the end

(The one which the waiter snootily looks at in complete disgust),

I have people from all walks of life, of different races

Of different countries, of different mindsets

Simply staring.