Ripped jeans you won’t see in my wardrobe,
Ripped jeans don’t adorn my legs
Not ’cause I detest them
or those who wear them,
It’s just that I don’t have a taste for them.
I don’t have attires that have holes or those that expose
But still the penetrating looks
Devour me from every nook
Yet I couldn’t care less
for these crooks.
Ripped jeans to me
Appear as a mockery
Reminding me of those ragged millions
Who have nothing to wear but ripped shirts and jeans
Not as an attempt to create a style or statement
But due to helplessness that poverty bestows on them
Where little reaches the starving stomach
From where would bodies get proper raiments.
Yet we have often witnessed
How earnestly they try to hide their skin
That peeps through their ripped shirts or jeans.
For they might have lost all their means
But intact remains their self esteem.