When the summer is over I will be dying I'm ready to be her And I'll take a new name I want to break off But I'm still tied I'm trying to be special But I'm just an image Of her I am a princess You wanted a queen My wings are stunted My attempts, too weak Will you give me the time to grow Or will I write poems, with nowhere to go?
“How was your day?”
.
.
In the mornings
When my mother starts her day in the kitchen
And my father looks for the newspaper
All I want is an excuse.
An excuse to pause the day, even before it has begun.
“Halt!” I say to Mr.Time.
Mr.Time wears a suit and a tie
With glasses as thick as icecubes
Perched on his rigid nose.
He slaps me hard and shouts like a war general
“Yes,Sir!”
I come back to my senses.
The day goes on and on and on
Like a thriller movie in slow motion,
Devoid of background music.
Deja vu
Every moment a facsimile of some other one.
There’s a cadence to monotony
If you have the ear for it.
Sometimes I do, don’t you too?
Before long, I get lost
In other worlds freshly manufactured
Where facts don’t matter,
Mr.Time is banned,
And I am free.
But I’m no God, no Creator Almighty
My thinly framed bubbles of thoughts
Fade away like half-remembered memories
Oh so quickly
Poof! And I’m back again.
Nothing makes sense yet, but at least
I’m back to my senses.
Ringing voices vibrate in my ears
Boys grinning with their mouths wide open
Girls leaning onto each other
Tearing up into giggles.
The dusky sky and the dazzling streetlights
Coexist with different ideals of beauty
I keep my eyes open
For every sight.
We call it a day.
I make my peace with Mr.Time
He smiles at me like a benevolent captor
I smile back.
.
.
“My day was great, how was yours?”
Sky stretched on the canvas.
So much blue, she is lost.
Specks of happy clouds
Float around like white cotton balls
Just like she used to run around the house
In a pale white frock
On humid summer afternoons.
Afternoons have kept their promise.
They peek in every day
To check up on her
But the girl has all grown up.
Afternoons now
Are dismissed daytimes.
Busy, yet boring;
That time of the day
Everyone wants to get over with.
Evenings arrive with hopes of glamour-
Breezy walks,
Cheery dates.
Playtime for children in the park.
Her playthings are gone, her
Playmates have long forgotten her.
All that is left-
Miles of scrolling the screen
And fear of missing out,
As work piles on.
Sky stretched on the canvas.
So much blue, she is lost.
So much she could’ve been,
So much she never will.
Time to paint it all afresh
With the hues of night instead.
With strokes of black paint
Strikes the midnight hour.
It’s time for dreams.
She can be anything now.
mimimusing 