Poetry
I Come Knocking at Your Door
Some days I come knocking at your door
My impatient knuckles fall on the wood
Maybe I am late,
Maybe you are not there,
Maybe you are asleep,
Or you don't care.
I keep wondering and pondering,
Standing where I stood
I hear your small steps approaching,
You call out, "who's there?"
"Are you there anymore?"
I try to answer, but don't know what to say.
I can feel your disappointed eyes,
I am lost for words.
But I really wanted you to stay.
Some days I come knocking at your door,
In hope or in false pretense,
Wishing that time stood still in your world
And you are still that innocent menace,
I sit by your door, remembering;
How sometimes you laughed
Wholeheartedly;
With your missing tooth,
And self-conscious again,
How some questions left you wondering!
Oh! Those thirsty eyes, seeking treasures
The happiness in, "Daddy bought me a new eraser!"
Now that I need you even more,
I keep knocking at your door!
Some days I want to come knocking at your door
But keep standing still, petrified in fear;
You might not recognize me anymore
You will be afraid of the stranger,
That I've become.
But I will not see any pity
In those lovely eyes,
For you are too young
To feel or to be touched by any demise.
You are content with your box of crayons,
Too busy looking
For the missing piece of your Lego,
And I am sitting there
Watching you fondly, in amusement;
Like life through key hole
To a time long ago.
Some days I come knocking at your door
The door opens, and all I can see
Some stranger looking back
From the mirror
Who looks just like me.
I close my eyes,
But I can still remember
When I whispered in my sleep,
"I want to be just like you!"
You promised me with a smile
As honest and pure as morning dew,
Before you turned around and disappear.
The Wild Heart
The wildness in heart; imprisoned
Like the delicate fluttering of wings
Pleading against the iron cage,
Refuses to be reasoned.
With the raging clouds,
Brewing in the sky;
Dark and angry, too proud to cry.
The collision of love and hate;
The clinched fist,
Rebelling fiercely against fate.
The wildness of heart, misunderstood
Shrouded by the cryptic illusion;
Like anguish for the stolen memories,
And amour propre, makes one a driftwood.
The shooting stars, like raining fire
Yearning and yelling,
For all the broken desires.
Time never heals, just deceives
With notions and perceptions,
And it's ever changing hue
Innocence fades away,
Like a midday story
Of a forgotten morning dew.
Nayeemul Karim is a poet, bibliophile, and crazy cat lad.
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