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!