Prisoner 28021970 Poem by Ibrar Siddiqi

Born on a cold Febraury Day.
My life has not been great I must say.
Health so poor.
Near Death's door.
At such a yound age.
My frustration, my rage.
As God pulls the carpet of fate.
Tired of landing on my face, so much, to date.
I wonder my life's purpose.
The biker guy, also asked why?
When turned down by HM Forces.
Handsome and tall.
Hard work he endorses.
Four great children, all to be proud of.
I ask myself why?
I am determined to strike my own Kismat.
For I am noone's doormat.
When fate tried to make me blind.
I took this on and suceeded.
For a great friend and brother Pete, whose advice I heeded.
I no longer want what everyone else has.
My goals have changed.
I want to be me and not listen to you or the rest of the sheep.
Lambs to the slaughter.
Pushed into the pen.
I stick to my roots.
My Jock boots.
I will ascend my great glen.
When.
That's done to me, alone.
This prisoner has been parolled.
He hasd served his time.
For no criume he commtirred.
But my daily fight to reform.
Is strong.
For no more hoops to jump through.
Or any tricks for a cruel warden, will I perfom.
I am a man, free of evil.
I will commit no sin.
Foe or friend
I no longer desire.
Idiots and muppets I have grown to ignore. and tire.
My walk through those big gates.
Sealed my fate.
Save yourself from imprisonment.
Do what's right to avoid confinement.
Find your Niravna.
May you be innocent and be content.