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Tag Archive: poetry


I am a prisoner. Locked up in my own cell. The world is the warden.
I can not drink
I want a drink
You drink too much, they say
Your liver is gonna go.

I am a prisoner in my own prison
I can not face them
Demons control me, they say
You are a bad influence, some say
I know not what they know

I am a prisoner in a world I once belonged
I can not walk
I can not get out of the house
You don’t belong here they say
A waste of skin

I am a prisoner gaoled within my mortal coil
I am my own warden
Voices tell me I am useless
They tell me they hate me,
A waste of space

I am a prisoner for all to see,
The world is the warden
I am scared of my own shadow
I am going to burn in hell,
The man with the white collar says

I am a prisoner no one wants
Forgotten by my friends
Unwanted by kith and kin
Banished to the prison that is within me
Loneliness is my companion

I am prisoner,
My conscience is the warden
You can’t say that, I hear it say
You can not do that, the voice says
I know I am no good

I am a Prisoner, no one can save
The dark walls surround me
An abyss I slowly sink into

Prisoner (TV series)

Prisoner (TV series) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Locked away in darkness
No one to save me

I am a prisoner, marooned, abandoned
Unseen walls around me
I know not what freedom is’
Float like a butterfly, fight, man fight
There is no fight left in me

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One of my favourite poems

English: Rydal Mount, Gardens landscaped by Wi...

English: Rydal Mount, Gardens landscaped by William Wordsworth. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

To A Butterfly

STAY near me—do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find I thee,
Historian of my infancy !
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring’st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father’s family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey:—with leaps and spring
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her, feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.

William Wordsworth

Seasons of my youth

I have always liked poetry ever since the first day I could understand how to read. Am I a romanticist or just a dreamer? I can not stop reciting in my head Wordsworth ‘s To a Butterfly and My Heart Leaps up’. I also particularly love the verse

The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

I remember the first days I read that poem, I could not make heads or tails of what the great poet was saying. However, it soon gradually became like a part of me as I could never put the book down.

Sometimes, I often find myself, when in an utter state of solitude dreaming of those long gone days when I was a little boy playing in the forest.I often go wondering back to days of my youth. Chasing birds, (the flying type), butterflies, grasshoppers. And just being a little impish runt. Those days when at the break of dawn you would hear the birds chirping, the Sun trying to sneak through the curtains. Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days. Oh those tranquil morns – then suddenly you get roused from that reverie by the sound of mom screaming you better get up and get ready for school.

I remember watching birds flying back at sunset. The sun reluctantly disappearing to its own bed. Grumblingly sometimes, as it tried to hang on, those long summer days. The sight of the rainbow following a brief spurt of rain, was oh so glorious. The sight of the rainbow, even to this day brings so much joy, hope and expectation. I do not know why and I am sure may never know why. Maybe that’s the child in me. Those sweet childish days live long in us.

Gone are those days when little boys and girls could run amok all day without any fear of some ‘naughty man’ taking them away. Come and go we did, fear no wrong. Playful little things we were.

In school we played. Had fun too. unbounded joy from learning how to read making new friends. And the breaks-oh! more time to play. The only fear then was the grunts of disapproval from that teacher with the big goggles, waving his finger at you. Apoplectic, frothing at the mouth because pupil could not give an answer for some math question. Or whatever?  ‘Those days when life was plain-sailing. When all you worried about was not when you will have something to eat, but being called back home to eat, interrupting your playtime. Those days that formed me..We were loved. We loved our big people. We loved the animals around us. The flowers, the days we used to break into song. What joy when we used to go to the fair!Mess about, eating candy floss and chocolate-coated apples!

We were in a West End musical with our big people watching us. Encouraging us to grow and flourish. Always standing up in applause. We were loved. We were watched. And be rewarded. No complications, life was so simple.

When we were young, all we needed was knowing we have a home to go back to. Loving parents and loads of toffees.

My heart leaps up when I recall those days of my childhood. So does it now that I am a man and see the little children I hope one day will be model citizens. Children should be nurtured and be allowed to flourish. Like a butterfly, they should bright, happy and be safe. And be allowed to float. Explore. Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days.

Looking back, as I reminisce I wonder whether I am looking at the past through a kaleidoscope. Everything was not rosy. Those were the best days of my life. Reminiscing has just made me remember too, days when we used to listen to country music. Dolly Parton’s My coat of many colours comes to mind! It tells a beautiful story.

Hamlet:
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th’oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere’d country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.

Macbeth

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

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