This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 34; the thirty-fourth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is "Of-Course, I'm insane"
“Revolutionary Road” is one movie that touched me deeply. This poem is in dedication to this film for showing me how people label those who try to follow their deep desires in their career and life. Spoiler Alert! :)(The character names have been changed for the sheer purpose of this poem’s rhyming scheme.)
‘Tis a story of two youngLovebirds who shared their life;Together they’d be happyThe supportive Patrice and Mike.
And aye, they hadJoined hands in the creationOf two more little livesThem, the husband and wife
They were the rare ones who’dmake plans togetherAnd loved each other for what they came up with,celebrated even in bad weather!
Aye, they had a perfect lifeMike did have a perfect jobMoney did roll in for themTheir neighbours dropped by a lot.
And slowly with the same routineMonotonous, Patrice grew tiredWhere once she had the best laughter in town,Her smile now wouldn’t reach the eye
That night when they wereAlone at long lastThe kids had slept, the dishes washedShe looked into his eyes and past
“Baby, didn’t you want toHave a life in Paris?Never to work and do what you likeA life just for yourself, with no worries?”
He looked back into thoseBeautiful eyes he loved so dearAmazed at how she remembered thatLong forgotten dream he had
“Why yes, my loveI had such a dreamI thought we’re happy here, butsomething’s bothering you, it seems!”
“Heed me,” she clung to his hand“We have enough to make it trueI’ll take up work over thereAnd support our kids and you!!”
Surprised with herLike he always wasA smile crept up till his eyesThat mirrored on his wife’s.
Come morning, the husbandWent to work to resign“I’m going to Paris!” he beamed at all“It’s my wife’s brilliant design!”
His colleagues and boss, howeverTook that for a jokeThey laughed at him and never believed“Wake up, ‘tis morning, bloke!”
“’Tis true! I am finally going toLive my Paris dream,”He laughed at them when he sawHow the words left them green!
The neighbor Mrs. Lacewood, that dayDropped by to see PatriceWhen they were done with formal smiles,convinced them to meet her son with pleas
“He’s ‘bout your age but I’m afraidHe’s a little psychoticI’d love if you two normal people wouldMeet him and talk to that poor thing.”
And so on a sunny weekend,Patrice made egg sandwiches, so divineAnd Mike politely offered to themHis best scotch, so fine.
When they announced their Paris planTheir neighbours thought them mad“That’s absurd!” they said, but their sonThe psychotic did appreciate and understand
They laughed that night“He’s the only one to understand!”They wondered if it were that theywere also crazy to stick by that plan.
The next day at work, MikeGot a better position, great newsAnd with that all his Paris plansGot trampled on by corporate shoes
And suddenly poor PatriceWas left standing aloneFor the plan she made for himShe begged him, but budge- he won’t.
“We’ll be more happy here,Our kids will have better provisionsTis’ my family I got to take care of nowNot some stupid dreams and visions”
That night, Patrice and MikeHad a long and bitter fightWho once supported each other everThe sad husband and wife.
He shouted “Have you gone mad?”“What’s got into your brain?”She looked at him with teary eyes,“Of-course, I’m insane!”
“You don’t care about the kids anymore,”Mike found the guts to sayCrying, Patrice begged him to stop,“We have another baby coming our way”
Surprised as ever by herHe hugged her and soothed the tearsThat ran down to wet her clothes“Everything will be alright my dear”
“This plan we made is stupid,” he said“We’ll need more money now more than everI’m going to take that job tomorrowAnd we will miss that dream never”
Heart broken by him, who sheTrusted with all her lifeCouldn’t think of going on like thisNext day, killed her baby inside
When Mike got to knowHe rushed to the hospital door“’Tis not only the dead baby that killed her,But sadness and her lonely chores”
