It used to be a playground
From days of yore.
Now, a dispute settling arena
Where blows are exchanged
And curses rained at the setting sun
Of failed dreams.
Disgruntled men, market women,
And of course,
We kids, come here to iron out
Our differences.
Last time I visited
Eyebrows were raised
Voices squeaked, and,
Tensions engulfed the air.
I was put under constant surveillance
Of my father's quizzing eyes
As if I am a reality TV show.
Although I may be the weak looking child
I have a role to play
In maintaining my respect
Among my folks
And I needed not a fatherly assistance.
Because no matter how limp
The groom's organ,
He will not borrow another man's
For the midnight course.
My father did not understand that.
But this sole mission,
I must accomplish.
My widow's mite,
I shall fight
Into the immortal thrift
Of new employees
I cannot stand akimbo
And await magic
Like a leper's lofty dreams
Of rising nails.
No, I will chart my course.
@harrywill