organs bloat;
at the age of seventeen
i sit down to write my book
of an anxious teenager
with too much time at hand
but i feel like i still live
in the chapter one
and so i tear the book
for it is nothing beyond
tragedies of a girl.
clot in arteries;
at the age of twenty
i sit down to write my book
of future and dreams
with a profane detachment
and time escapement
but i feel like i still live
in the chapter one
and so i burn the book
for it is nothing beyond
dullness of disconnected
veins.
paralyzed fingers;
i am twenty two
i continue to write the book
of saids and unsaids
lost time like slipping sand
but i realise that i had been
living in chapter one
and so i bury the book
for it is nothing beyond
versions of ghosts
twisted and turned.
and at twenty three
i bring in a book
of a primadonna
but in time i throw it away
and get back to writing
my book;
the flower starts to bloom
as arteries shed clots
and organs unblot
with moving fingers unbowed.
YOU ARE READING
Aruni
Poetryher name is Aruni. and like the sun, she will rise after the dark and let every sunrise find her different. ・✫・゜・。. poetry tellings of a fictional character that span across the random times of her life. [Readers' discretio...
