juvenile poetry: My childhood school

🌪 Preface for “Ace of Spade”

“Of Dust, Dreams, and Barefoot Races”

There are some verses that don’t just rhyme — they breathe.
“Ace of Spade” was written in the smoke and sweat of my formative years. I must’ve been barely a teen when this poem spilled out — part frustration, part fun, part the ache of growing up without filters.

It’s the story of racing against odds — with old bicycles, second-hand school bags, and classmates who were warriors in rags. We were young, broke, and stupidly brave. Our scars were invisible, but our laughter was loud enough to silence them.

This poem isn’t refined.
It limps. It runs. It bruises.
But it lives.

Looking back now, I see it as a snapshot — of mischief, rebellion, and the kind of friendships that were built not on convenience but survival. And somewhere buried inside it, is that wide-eyed boy who believed that even with nothing — he could still be the “ace of spade.”

This is for him.

Poem : 

 As early as in childhood — plums,
Where I played drums with dirty slums,
I studied with rags whose father begs,
An endless road to achieve with two legs,
The road ended only after two decades!
Still we thought we are ace of spade,
Chasing bikes, we kept our pace,
Cars too joined, we had a hearty race,
Chasing them to miles where they couldn't be traced,
Tired were we, but still a smile on our face.
Sometimes we got a tractor's grace
To reach our school fence.
“Eight to eight” — the study was a mess,
And “teachers” were worst of all menace.
First half it's fine, for next we escaped in recess,
As the schools were worst of our days,
Rude teachers beat us for our little mistakes.
We danced with cry when he beat with cane,
That's why we called him insane.
He enjoyed beating — cruel laugh on his face,
His cruel massacre still in our head,
A thought to kill him and curse to gain.

~vrihad
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The poem was written during my school days, I found it after a long search for it. It was written During 2006-2007, summers.