Sitting restless in a hospital chair,
his eyes gleaming with worry and care,
and then when he was handed his daughter,
'my son' he said, happy eyes full of water,
he clutched her hand and made her walk,
he made her carry herself, he made her talk,
he let her fall and get up on her own,
he chose to be strict, love was never shown,
he never carried her in arms like the other fathers did,
she never got to play with dolls like the other daughters did,
her bed time stories were never angel, fairy things,
he narrated her all night great warriors and kings,
she never called him 'dad', she called him 'father',
she was his 'son', she never was a 'daughter',
she heard swings of swords,
instead of clinks of bangles,
flowers? never!
pins were her sandals,
make up? never!
he made her wear blood,
dancing? never!
he made her fight in mud,
he made her the son he wanted,
but she loathed the father she was granted,
other girls dressed like princesses, while she fought,
the other dads were better she always thought,
and one day when he got ashed in flames,
she then realised all the games,
making her the strongest was his endeavour,
instead of some princess, he made her a warrior,
all the girls were married and gone,
she was the only one to stand on her own,
others just lived and died, what a pity!
But she? she had her own identity,
Oh yes he never wanted her,
he wanted a son,
but instead of killing her,
he made her one.
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Thoughts of a Juvenile
PoetryWords are sharper than knife they say. Yes it is true. Some perfectly moulded good words can both make and break a heart easily. A poem is a group of such perfectly moulded words given wings to fly. They fly through the mind and heart easily. A hob...
