A Lost Friend…

I lost a friend of mine
at the age of nine.
A friend who was as if, carrying my blood. Still now my memories do flood
with all the moments, penned down by us. He got lost, because of a single fuss.
A fuss that started way back,
when his parents heard him cry.
Asked him to stop, on his very first day,
because crying is not what he should try.
His parents’ belief that tears would make him weak,
actually made him weaker instead.
It didn’t matter now if he got beaten up, or got sick;
he still wouldn’t cry, even if his face become red.
No one actually said to him that crying wasn’t bad,
it’s actually letting your emotions flow when you are sad.
The mistake we made by not knowing what real feminism is,
put up a huge burden of responsibilities on those little shoulders of his.
The shoulders that cracked up, because of those huge responsibilities.
Lying weak at night but standing strong in the morning, was one of his abilities.
Or perhaps, that was the only ability he had;
because the rest got wasted, when he was sad.
Just like other poems, cushions and showers came here to rescue
the emotions which were left, though they were very few.
The rest,
got suppressed,
under the fact that he was a boy.
Hence, had to show maturity at the age of nine,
instead of playing with a toy.
Because toys are for girls and are fragile.
The only mistake of his, was not looking at his strength and smile.
Here I am, writing a poetry on my friend,
whom I lost at the age of nine.
At the beginning I lied to you;
because the friend I lost, was actually the childhood of mine.

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