A Cup of Tea

In the garret above,
I once sat, deliberating about love;
I at least knew there was no trust
And hence looked around fast;
On the table still stood the cup of tea,
I hurriedly made my way to it like a bee
After due deliberation about the first sup,
I instead drank it in one gulp.

The Shelf

The shelves I behold intently
Like a mother by her little child;
One book after another do I catch,
To strive for a personal touch.

Orwell, the same life I led
My inspiration he bred
I have decided on the theme
Through the essays I read.

A pen, a piece of paper are the resource
To which I would have recourse.
In order to stamp a lasting fingerprint
By which my works would come into print.

A committment to hold up
At a time when there is no rising up;
But, it is easier said than done,
Especially when most people have impulsively run.

The Weird Life

Holding backward views
Neither an advancement did I accept,
Nor an attempt did I make;
Thus, I brought about no news;
Rarely did they mention my name.

Oh, How can they make such a decision
As long as I have another vision?
Ethereal were not my garments
Just in time I detect the reason.

With mistrust on the other side,
I have set out to find
Where the pitfall would reside.

Setting Foot in that Square

One autumn my half-brother leading me to school
There I would be a new pupil;
Wondering what all that was for,
Our lives, they say, are based on that core;
Immediately shuddering at my fellows,
For I had no idea who to follow.

Years elapsed and a mature student came
Then other responsibilities to assume;
Wearied of my remarkably little mettle,
I one day rose to rebel;
It was a power no one could ever tame.

In less than no year
My image begin to appear;
An unruly, unrivalled, stubborn man they challenge;
But, no victory yet came on their part;
It is with their surmises I dared to part.

Waiting with bated breath,
A thousand times I fought that threat;
Had it not been for my living,
Countless things would still be waving.

Oh, it is a resistance of mind;
Ineffable is the fire inside;
It is a will that can never be undermined.

As I Arrived Home

Looking back on my childhood,
For my deformity I have shed a tear;
As no one that instant showed any care;
I distinctly knew I was not served the right food,
And these are the memories I can longer bear.

Before long I by reading heard of some celebrity,
Who too complained of the same misfortune;
Long brooding over how she made that forune,
I was told that it was due to her constant alacrity.

Setting myself to that path,
Step by step I made for that night;
Between that phase and the ninth,
I woke to find the light.

Here started my journey as a budding writer;
Then my future has turned brighter
To the past I have turned a deaf ear.
Could those who fled from me come near?
So that I tell them I am no longer here.

Class Participation

Some poor teachers would think that participation is the prestigious criterion by which the level of students is assessed. The problem is not that participation is valueless but, rather it is the teacher is wrong when focusing more on oral tests rather than written ones. As I have experienced, some lazy students are chatty and talkative, but they get good marks, whereas those who are industrious do not get those good marks.

Here lies the crux of the matter. That is, there might be some students who are not accustomed to participation or are too timid to raise their hands. But, we should not neglect or underestimate their level of understanding or education in general. I would suggest that teachers should focus more on written ones, because if they do not, there would be another case similar to what occured to Thomas Edison when once told by his teachers that he is too stupid to learn anything.

To Continue the Trek

A haughty man I might have been
When no one previously dared to stand.
Shortly leading them by the hand,
I unawares missed the has-been
And here unexpectedly appointed by the sand.

Alas, my hopes are dashed, some might say,
For I never knew it was decreed in my fate.
But this is the deserved price one might pay;
Then I would become what I am at any rate.
This is what loyal friends of mine hate.

I shall always tell you this with great remorse
As in my room there is some force.
It is through which I still survive;
My story is but a specimen of other lives.

The trek is still a great dream
Down the Draa stream
There I for long stand holding that book.
Of which no one yet knows it is mine by hook or by crook;
In it I told but the plain truth.

I a mere passer-by;
My pupils I bade goodbye,
And the trek at last did continue .