The Young Boy
It's funny how time flies,
Can still remember the early days,
When one was not certain of what he wanted to be,
Not as if there's a change in that,
But the scattered mind of a young boy,
Whose best moments were the ones he spent with himself,
In the room and parlour apartment,
In a face-me-I-face-you building,
Was mostly left alone to tender to himself,
While parents had to make ends meet,
Going to the next street to play ball,
Back with broken bottles stuck in his feet,
The Saturday rituals of choir practice,
Crossing the express at a tender age,
No regards to life,
Funny how now he prefers the pedestrian bridge,
Sundays, were good for him, early to church,
Early back home way before the others,
His food patiently waiting,
Remember how the apartment became crowded at intervals,
With relatives always around to stay,
Funny enough,
Boy was always surrounded with people yet so lonely,
His best friends a girl and a boy,
Who bonded mostly on their way back from school,
Chauffeur-driven in other boy's car,
Girl, was the genius among them,
A scholar and still is,
The young boy and the other boy just there,
Passed but sometimes barely,
His primary school remained his building point,
Introduced him to books and ever since he never turned back,
Reading any book available,
Became a thing with him and his siblings,
His friends changed later as he got to secondary school,
But books remained his closest confidant,
He shares in their experiences,
Their joys and pains,
Their wins and losses,
Books created memories for him,
Memories he cherishes with people,
Most of them he met from exchanging books,
He counted himself lucky,
With people always having his back,
Some he knew others he didn't,
Still doesn't know how to relate with people,
But still, keep his hurts and pains to himself,
Never had people to share that with,
Never knew how to share his pain,
Born in a world full of darkness,
Stumbled around to find his light,
Much has always been expected from him,
But never had someone to look up to,
Someone whose path he could follow and who could guide,
So he keeps stumbling around,
Making mistakes here and there,
And still wouldn't ask for help,
Was never his way,
Would stumble till he got it,
No matter how long he always got it at the end,
Like Mathematics, from a boy who always had red in his results sheet because of Maths,
Ended up been someone whom some looked up to for learning it,
It takes time, but in the end, he always gets it,
The boy has grown,
But those traits still exist,
If you meet him,
Just know that he might stumble consistently,
But he will get that which he needs,
Which was what his stumbling helps him to figure out,
To always let go of that which he wants for that which he needs.