A sleepy sun crawls up the horizon while the orange strolls barefoot on the skies, I wonder in awe. These days I don't find my aesthetics neatly folded beside my pastel colours, nor do I see them chasing a dandelion. My garden smells of freshly brewed heartbreaks, I run away. The souvenirs from a plethora of harsh yesterdays knock at my present like I've been waiting for them since eternity. The concept of forever, I believe is the prettiest oxymoron alive, wish I could say otherwise.
I stop writing my poems midway when a realisation dawns upon me. My happy frowns, probably I lost them while running in strange circles. On somedays I look for fond clichés to write about, here and there. And perhaps sometime soon it's agony who taps my shoulder and welI I don't have a choice but to embrace what embraces me. I have a profusion of dark apologies scrunched between the pink in my lips and maybe someday I'll let them out in the most vulnerable way possible, because anyway, did I ever care?
I can't stand before the mirror longer than 3 blinks of my eyes, because the only eyes who are bold enough to stare at me serve as a testimonial to the coward I hide under my skin. I can't be rekindled in a lover's pleading poetry and no, pink carnations and sugar-coated words are nowhere near close to make me stay. Who am I? I wish someone would tell me soon. On somedays I tie my insecurities in a bun and on others I just don't care. I like to fall into a whirlpool of chaos , I've been used to them just enough to call them my home.
You would ask my neighbour and perhaps she'll spill a ton of badly buttered facts in front of you with a pre-planned smile in accordance to my mother who's probably afraid that the world won't accept me as a runaway impertinent coward or perhaps more. But the prevalent law of universe is that the one with answers herself is never questioned enough. Because this time the world holds onto its bitter-sweet fragility a little tighter so that the mere muses of a more mere mortal can't surpass. Probably I know what I am, a free verse, a broken rainbow , a harsh cliche?
I can't ever be made to fall into smiles. A happy poem is something I never want to be, not this time atleast.
Perhaps, hope is a novel, I quit writing long back .