The Monster

Yellow is my happy colour the little girl squealed
Tying laces, whirling her Frock, hair pinned,
She ran through the grass, across the field
Showing a broken tooth, she grinned.
My pen gives me strength the lady stated,
Piling up papers she was doing something, she never hated,
Pen started dancing on the paper as the notions got expressed,
Smiling, she was writing a future no one could’ve guessed.
The toothy grin evaded, as the claws crawled up to her face,
She started squirming, wanted to escape the chase.
Her whimpers got faded tired of getting beaten down,
Her innocence dulled as there sat a perpetual frown.
When she met the eyes of monster in disguise,
With terror stricken face she realized, what ahead of it lies.
Satisfaction vanished, the bubble of her happiness crumpled,
The spilled ink mourned for her destroyed dream world.

I begin to wonder

Eyes start to crinkle, welcoming a new dream,
Hands start to twitch, ready to be wiry,
But all gets blown in a stream,
When our dreams get assailed with their retiree.
Our hearts get burdened with responsibility,
Ultimately inclining towards the feasibility,
And i begin to fear,
How much one heart can bear?
How the life mocks the pedantic,
By claiming it to be gullible,
And makes reckless the aesthetic,
By blazing it through the trouble,
How efforts seem so little,
When luck takes the toll,
Face of life looks so brittle,
Knowing everything can not be in control
When perfection starts looking like a blunder,
Then i begin to wonder.

Boxes of memories

I was watching as my boxes were getting loaded in a truck,

leaving the old town, I was about to leave my life’s big chunk.

First came the box of innocence,

Which was filled idiotic nuisance.

Babbling of child, pretty beautiful dolls,

Volcanoes of laughter erupting through the halls.

Then came the box of conceit maturity,

The arrival of which marked the absence of purity.

Sobs, yelling, bruises and crumpling relations,

Pride inflaming the flames of deafening hesitations.

One after the other came the boxes of oblivious memories,

Going down the lane of nostalgia, blew a different breeze.

Some small boxes, some large, some fragile,

Took the turns towards various aisles.

Some unbreakable, some full of lies,

I bid my final goodbye to the house of eyes.

http://shortprose.blog #nostalgia #poems

Stereotype

There is strength in staying soft, There is inclination for having condour, In felicity there is a little sorrow at loft, in candids there is always something unpure. Softness does not define the timid, condour does not define the naive. There is always a part disguised, which is powerless to direct the stereotypical wave.