Hardik Vaidya (26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)

It is nothing new for me to break my eyes,
Not those given by Nature,
Those made by man, earlier in glass, now in plastic.
They sit on my nose bridge, two lovely flies,
Without them I am clue less as time without its flight.

I went to the optician, he measured my Natural sight.
The experience opened locked doors of memories,
Buried deep inside.
When I was in Kinder Garden and then in Class 1,
I used to complain I could not see what the Teacher wrote on the Black looking board.
My parents are and will be the best of the lot,
Poor souls they took me to all sorts,
One Doctor I remember,
A gold medalist,
From the University of Edinburgh,
And I apologise on behalf of him.

Checked my eyes,
Looked and smiled,
Asked me one question,
Whom do you love more?
Your mom or your dad?
I was dumbfounded,
Even at that age I was born with a scalpel,
I cried out aloud, I told him stupid lout,
Both, and what has that got to do with my eyes,
Do your job and sod off.
He then told my parents,
I think your son needs a wife,
You must show his head to a shrink,
Before he looses his mind.

Since class 1 I am wearing my real eyes,
After being questioned by men of science,
With a attitude of the cash tiller,
I don't blame their thrillers,
It's not their Alma Matter,
The grey in their matter,
Got sold to the malts in their desire,
In their wives Avon,
In their Children's hopes and dreams anon,
But why did those chaps experiment,
With my innocent eyes?
When the man you call God,
Sitting in his seat above,
Gorging French fries,
Drinking and having a great time,
While whispering to his girl friend,
In the bouts of sweat mead he had,
Forgot to tune his console,
While I was being formed,
And made me myopic?