By Ram Aakarsh Pinnamaneni
Outside, a happy and boisterous boy,
Making what were to be nostalgic stories.
He was positively beaming with joy—
His friends and family witnessed his glory.
He looked happy, he looked proud,
He looked kind, he looked stout,
He looked smart, and he more than stood out.
He was to be successful—he didn’t need clout.
A model child.
As he went into his house and got to work,
He seemed to change and transform.
He looked tired and overworked—
Eyes had taken a sunken form.
Tired?
His shoulders lost their usual post
And sunk to their lowest.
His smile widened to that of a ghost's—
The pressure would make him the best.
Was he tired?
He sat in his dark and cold room,
Hunched in a chair, facing his laptop and desk.
Judging from his demeanor, you would think impending doom—
But all it was, was the weight of his tests.
A tired child.
But more than that—so much more,
Beside him were his friends,
An obligation to make dad lore,
Yet he was stretched end to end.
A tired child.
Forced upon by society, he was utterly shook.
They looked upon and demeaned.
There was this pressure to build muscles and looks—
Or else, “You’re fat,” they would scream.
A tired child.
And behind him was his family—
Those he found solace in, in times where he was shunned.
A brother, mother, and father—three.
He was their wall of protection,
He had to be.
A tired child.
He looked forward at his dreams,
His dreams of becoming a chef.
This was no easy feat, you see,
And so the pressure added to the rest.
A tired child.
In his mind, he was a wall,
Holding back a sea.
He would not falter, he would not fall—
Else he appeared to be weak.
A tired child.
For anything else, he would find time.
How? That didn't occur to him.
He would figure it out later—he had things on his mind.
The water was to reach the wall’s rim.
A tired child.
He would be happy, he would stand proud.
He would be kind, he would be stout.
He would be smart, he would stand out.
He would be successful—no need for clout.
The pressure he built—would the wall withstand?
Would he hold it with his trembling hands?
Would he uphold everything he sees,
Pushing with his buckling knees?
He was a tired child indeed.