Poetry | The Daily Star
12:00 AM, April 07, 2018 / LAST MODIFIED: 12:00 AM, April 07, 2018

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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