Tukur Ridwan - The Millenial

To be a child is to crave the outside, kick balls, and get dirty, 

Knowing that someone's waiting at home to clean up the mess.

By seven o'clock on a weekday evening, siblings are after me

Like a fugitive, at father's beck and call. I could get caught up

In an addictive video game centre—a child's foray into the

Underworld of gambling and zero-sum games. I'm surprised

That I never placed a bet, yet time was money. I took a whooping

For always taking the risk. Living the life of a lad who wanted

To feel the childhood euphoria in a child's casino, when the street

Football, table tennis and martial arts movie mimicry weren’t enough.

In my dreams, I owned a PlayStation. That was the height of wealth

For every boy in my hood, until a certain turning point soured

The taste of this indulgence. I got the last strike in grade school,

And sat my ass down to take the pounding of books on my brain.

Years passed by, and the outside became the sacrifice. But I grew.

To be grown is to be locked behind the door, out of the busy streets

Polluted by a mirage of hopes and carbons. Years down the line,

I reminisce about the boy who wanted the world in a game console,

Thanks to Facebook reels of the nineties pop culture, a remnant

Of which I witnessed post-nineties. I now work from home, writing 

My way out of lack and obscurity. Stepping my lethargic feet outside

To get food items and whatnot. Memories of R-rated scenes,

And my past randy moments still trail me in my solitude when

I struck a boner, but I lost my mojo for asking for what my body wants.

I wish I could perform for acceptance, but I've grown too comfortable

In my skin. Only Friday nights remind me that I'm alone, as usual.

I can hardly hold a joystick for an hour without burning out. So,

I check my list of Hollywood cult classics, spend moments 

Arguing politics with my religious mother, hours of chit-chatting

With a distant friend, and minutes, dialling phone numbers for my father.