Don't show me your Money
Don't show your Bank Balance
Don't show me your Estate
Don't show me your Power
Sorry, with all your Fortunes
You cannot Purchase Me
Because, Only items are on Sale
My body is an Item – "I Accept"
But my Soul is Not an Item
And is Not available for Sale
Everything Is Not For Sale, Hence Can't Be Purchased, Though We Live In Inside A Large Market
Ghastly, the night is interrupted
Shockingly, an intruder opens the door
Desperately, searches something
Fortunately, finds it and makes his escape
Vigorously, I run after him
Eventually, it is a brawl and a terrible coincidence
Painfully, I’m knocked by him
Hastily, he locks me into a dark room
And runs away with the anonymous precious item
With half-open eyes, I get a golden glimpse of the item
Badly, I shed gloomy tears for I could do nothing
Confusingly, I ask myself questions
Of the strange golden item
Of the misery I’m suffering
And most importantly, of the mystery man
Luckily, I see a window in the room perfect enough for me to break through
Struggle is needed and I try not to lose hope
I shatter the glass with a wooden block and make my way
I land at the entrance of a graveyard
Hurriedly, I tip-toe to my house until the horror gobbles me down
I’m safe now
But something still bothers me
Something that doesn’t let me sleep
A notion which says that the intruder will retaliate
And probably, threaten me until I beg for death
"Hey!" I call out.
But of course it's unheard.
She flits back and fourth,
Like an uncertain bird.
She's tearing up piles,
Clothes flying behind.
She's frantically looked
In each region, but mine.
She yells to the sky.
"Of all things to lose,
This one goes in my eye."
I snicker. It's true.
A conundrum, she's got.
In the bathroom she speaks "Are you here??"
I am not.
She always sees through me,
What a wonderful girl
She brings me out with her
And I show her the world
Her life became clear,
The day I was hers.
Life before me, she recounts,
Was a blur.
She loves me, and I her.
You could say that I'm quacked.
She speaks through a sigh
"I hate you, Contact."
I wrote this for a class. The prompt was: "Write a poem that speaks from the point of view of a lost or misplaced item that used to belong to you."
Walking towards the gate,
the guard stopped me saying, "Hey.."
"Where's your gate pass?", he continued.
"I don't have any. I didn't bring any loot."
He giggled at my answer, "Oh, you should."
And so I went back inside to prepare a gate pass.
I sought for the bosses to have it signed.
Then I went back to the guard again and showed him my gate pass.
He smirked, then finally he let me out.
And as I walked, I realized, *"So we were just an item? ****.."
Sad truth: many employees are just treated as an item by their employers.
— The End —