Story of My islanders

I am going to tell a story. An old story needed to be told. We are outsiders in our own back yard. We did not have a place to put a front yard.
This is the island I am talking about. Not the island with “linked road” which broadened ego and shortened our life. I am not talking about land where knife takes life. Do you hear me, care to know where I come from.
We were battled but we settled. But they tussled us at every corner.
Now ,my people are known as hustles.
Don’t you think we don’t have our own castle of dreams, full of light beams? We won’t give up without a fight. Which is what you say!Right?
See that’s my people way of reaching new heights. We do not prefer prison cell. We want be referred like you all.
Cultural narrative has shrouded clear perspective. It has become attractive and people are reactive to it.

I am not talking about propaganda and mass agenda of center stage; I am not talking about a place where cunning and stunning takes the stage. I am talking about minority. Nobody's priority
We did not only lose our land. We lost more. We lost our core. When we took to the new shore, there was niggle and struggle to come from where we call our home. We were outsiders from inside. We shored outside because of government enactment. Of course it was same as banishment.
Some took to the resorts and became host. At cost of our most loved ones. You take us as emblem of social problem. You take us too troublesome to think about.
Yet you think knife is too worrisome. You seek humanity in continuity. Constituency and liberty seems to be your property not a constituent’s necessity.

To feed your greed, you breed a creed to do your read. You feed on us like carnivore. Who hover on its prey. We pray to god show us some light in this fight.
We wrestle not to hassle. We bustle to be recognized and immersed in to organized society. We do not want be submerged, We do not want be remembered, membered as the rotten or forgotten.