Not otherwise specified, those pains that are my birthright...invisible scars...gifts of those who now touch the sun...my mother gave them to me, and her mother to her... Not otherwise specified, that hidden rage, first identified at youth's bloom...When I stabbed paper with pencil and experienced sublime bliss... When do I remember feeling happy? Oh, yes, when I am in defense of my  soul...convincing those who would listen of my right to stay alive... Not otherwise specified, the sadness that envelopes me... Like an old moth- eaten blanket...it's just about useless, but I won't give it up...because it's real and it's old, and it's mine...one of the few things in life that I truly own...like that old woman whose presence I feel but whose face I cannot see... a face filled with tears... I can't ignore her voice, a silent voice...voice as loud as a drum...a voice that says "I want to give you more, but all I have is my love and my pain”.... a voice that says "remember me." Not otherwise specified, can't be identified – it's private, hidden, but I feel it...It’s getting harder to conceal it... Nameless scars that cry out for justice, faceless tears of those mercy has scorned... my mother gave them to me, and her mother to her...there is no name, no start, no end...passed on from generation to generation... Not otherwise specified... The voices of the ancestors that roil in the pit of my stomach...and like hunger, demand to be sated.