The boy in short trousers
Boy stands in a rowdy frantic playground
Feeling the cold in more ways than one
Shoes letting in water, nose dripping
Wiping dew away on the back of coat sleeves
too long for his skinny wiry arms
Mind wondering, cravings for recognition
will fall again on closed ears, as others have already categorised him as poor, pale and insignificant, no opposition
A pushover and easy bullying fodder
He claims he’s in the juniors, his peers know it’s a lie, they hope they’re going
to pressure him, enough to make him cry
Little boy lost they say he is
but he’s made of tougher stuff
They didn’t know what they were dealing with, as he was used to having it rough
His strategy was to put on an act that
film stars would be proud of
through most of his life he huffed and puffed but never blew any house down
Forced to grow up at eight years old
and sacrifice his childhood
His mum depressed his Dad had gone
so he quickly gravitated to manhood
How do I know about this boy so young who carried the world on his shoulders?
Who struggled through a torrid time
but survived and is now much older?
He’s older but wiser and still in touch
with his thoughts and fond memor-ees
The good times, the sad times
and yes you’ve guessed it...
The boy in the poem was me!