I Want To Run

I want a holiday,

I don’t care if it isn’t May.

I’m sick of school,

All I do during classes

Is sit and drool.

I have a headache,

I can’t concentrate,

I want to run,

Run out of school;

Run into fresh air,

Out of the stuffy, classroom, that’s bare.

I want to kick back, relax,

Feel the sun on my face,

I’m sick of air-conditioning,

I’m tired of the fans turning,

I want some real, sweet-smelling wind.

I’m sick of Geography,

And Maths, History and Biology,

My head is full with English and Chemistry,

I want to empty my mind,

Empty it of knowledge that grinds.

I want to run,

Run towards freedom,

Run till I can’t anymore,

Run to the end of the world

Where it isn’t a bore,

Far, far away,

As far as possible,

From the dreaded building we call School!

Get Me Away!

I hate my school,

It’s stinky and rotten,

I don’t fit in,

That’s the bottom truth.

I thought this school would be great,

The day came; I could hardly wait.

Then disappointment fell,

After three months,

I still had only one friend.

They don’t talk my language,

All they do is gossip and boys,

They’re “girly-girls”,

Not like me; not at all.

In my old school we’d toss a ball,

During break, in the hall.

Here if I mention it,

They stare at me and giggle,

And say “Dude! We’ll get sweaty!”

I hate all who brought me here,

I feel like a bound and trapped deer;

I have no escape route,

This madness is enough to make one shout,

And scream and tear, at their hair,

“Get me away from this stinking place!”

War Within Myself

“Charge!” yells the minuscle white commander,

His sword held aloft and his teeth bared,

His armies follow at his command,

Brave warriors; every one of them;

Fighting the foreign invaders,

For their lives, their host, their body.

The steel blades clang aginst one another,

Fighting to kill.

The commander dies; they scatter, confused.

Outside, my body heaves with effort, and pain.

The armies roar, my blood runs,

My organs burn as the invaders use guns,

There are too many,

My warriors are falling;

Failing fast.

Then it is all over,

The battle is past,

The invaders are cheerful;

They have triumphed.

The battlefield is strewn,

With my blood; my life.

I slip away into the darkness,

Slowly, slowly.

I have lost the war,

Within myself.

I got the idea for this poem when i was sick on Tuesday 2nd September. I was really ill and in a bad condition. As i thought about viruses and bacteria attacking my body, I remembered being taught about them in primary school. In our textebooks, the pictures of white blood cells and viruses where coloured white and green respectively, and they were clad in armour and carried swords and guns. They had mouths and some of them were talking, too. At that time, I actually thought that viruses and WBCs looked like that.  I was surprised to learn later than they simply secreted substances to kill or engulf viruses and bacteria.

Summer in India-A Description

The air shimmers with heat and the sun is at its peak. The grass lies parched and yellow, dying slowly as the soil becomes dry and cracked. The creek is lying low and the fish underneath have no refuge from their merciless predators who rule the sky.. A distant sound of a car backfiring is heard occasionally but otherwise there is only deathly silence. The inhabitants of the area have their windows thrown wide open, hoping to tempt an extinct breeze. Some have their air-conditioners and fans running at full speed which gives barely any relief. Parents have no energy to scold and children have no energy to irritate them. Everyone waits impatiently for the sun to disappear below the horizon, so they have some reprieve from their formidable yellow foe in the sky.

Summer In India

Hot and dirty,

Sweaty and filthy,

That’s how it is,

The unique Indian Summer.

Grass as always,

A parched yellow,

The few flowers wilting,

The fruits aren’t mellow.

The houses are silent;

Their windows shut,

This sweltering heat,

Doesn’t stop for even a beat.

The air-conditioners,

Running at their full speed,

Down to their lowest temperatures,

They give barely any relief.

At this moment,

The loveliest treat,

Would be the banishment,

Of this sweltering heat.