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The Drunkard's Son

Poetry By: arun

The title says that all..
Tried to write poetry after a long time, and it proved, I guess, that poetry is not my thing!!!!

Submitted:Mar 4, 2012    Reads: 59    Comments: 9    Likes: 2   

The title says that all..

Tried to write poetry after a long time, and it proved, I guess, that poetry is not my thing!!!! I had had this to write as a short story and well, I tried to make it a poem and haha, as usual, I slipped to failure!


Lotus on sludge, on mire, they say, it grows-a good metaphor;

Compared me to the same, indeed, I myself, though irrational.

Swamp they stamp my father as, an addict, a dipsomaniac;

Pathetic a situation his is, compelling from within is his Master.

Stays not the clearness that remains on peace, during fights,

Blood through veins, water through sieve, anger through me.

Anger, aversion, defiance, all swarm in me all the times;

Everyone's an addict, to some, and he, to that, I appease self,

No use, no use, times when he go on high, hitting mom, shouts;

She too dead, no more, endurance limit's crossed; none I have to love!

Disrespect, negligence, sneer, all of what I see, saw, and fear to see,

Drunkard not only that he is, begs he to all relations, indebted I was.

"Son of that foul drunkard!" A title that so aptly I was awarded,

Pain erupts through me, by my name I'm not known. Shame!

I'm not his 'race,' I aver, I try a little, I try much, I try all my life, I may try to die.

Coward I was, afraid to die, too, what of my dreams, my passion, my life?

I try, I try, I try some more; I try showing my skills, no attention.

No one notices, all just walks by; my aunt, my uncle, cousins, nieces, all go by!

The respect I deserve, where is it? Dark room I remain, but won't forever.

Frustrated I was, perfection I try, committed and sincere I'm in my onus, no use;

See what lies within, see no what that appears outside, see not what all see;

Why see the cause? The product, I was, why not see 'me?'

This world I want not, facile relations I detest; so I disappear, I vanish;

Days roll by, months roll by, faces change much, skins go shrunk, I return.

I see all changed, my city changed, neighbours, trees, roads, all different.

Stays the same, my father; much worse, indeed; almost a lunatic, filthy, lonely;

Saw my relations, my success; my fame; my growth they wondered, and envied.

The paper roll in my hands, imprinted as 1000, red in colour, Gandhi smiling;

Gandhi smiled, my father smiled, my cousins smiled, to me my aunt glues!

"Drunkard's son," now altered to "that's his father!" what a change! Money do speak!

My drunkard father, there goes he, now on malaises; the tonic he calls the same;

Enjoying social privileges, my mom, once neglected! Unknown faces claim relationships!

What madness! Where went thou, when I ran? Went whither your kindred?

Everything changed, this, too, may.

Saw I, him, in hopes, as enters he the wine shop.


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