A Group of Quarrelling Words

This is not a poem
It’s just about the feeling
A cluster of quarrelling words
Like a lad building castles on the soil
Until an adult appears from nowhere
And tramples on it
And swaggers on without looking back
What can a hapless lad do?
But be frustrated
And confused
Like these quarrelling words

This is not a poem
It‘s just about the feeling
A hen scratching cemented floor
Like a pregnant woman expecting a boy
She buys baby clothes in every shop
And writes a list of names for the baby boy
Only to be knocked down on the road
By a reckless driver that cares not
And the baby is gone
In slimes of blood and smelly fluids
What can a helpless woman do?
But quack quack quack
A hen mimicking a duck

This is not a poem
It’s just about the feeling
A bunch of straying confused words
Like a jelly fish in flowing lake
Swimming and making merry
Until a hawk appears from nowhere
And digs it fangs into the fish
And there it dies 
Gradually….

I am not a man
I am a fish
Hunted everyday by roving eyes
Seeking dirt under my flipping feebly fins 
They must surely see them
Cos I am a fish
Not a god

I am the orphan
The dirty orphan thrown behind the fence
By those wealthy clandestine chiefs
Like a plague
That could contaminate their spotless clans
Don’t call this a poem
It is just a feeling
A group of quarrelling words….