Up and down,
up and down.
I quietly watch,
the seesaw never meeting the ground.
My nails are chipped,
from digging the mud.
Maybe I am looking for a stud.
Why was I doing it,
for sure, I dont know.
Im not playing,
nor do I have any seeds to sow.
I don't see any child playing.
I don't want to be delaying.
For what reason I still don't know.
My hands never slow.
Only a tree full of black crows, I saw.
It is a strange playground, with only a seesaw.
The air I breathe,
is different.
The empty vibe in it,
is exuberant.
My hands still dont stop,
they continue.
While my eyes are fixated,
on the playground's view.
My backpack goes up and I inhale.
The shovel goes up and I exhale.
I blink a few times,
and shake my head.
There's no seesaw now.
My bag and the shovel are lying on the soil bed.
My paws keep digging the dirt,
even after my limbs start to hurt.
I notice my surroundings,
are suspiciously quite.
Quite like a dead night.
After blinking a little more,
a blank stone structure paves.
Looking like a tombstone,
kept on graves.
My hands never stop,
Even after the many chips and blood drops.
Finally I find a small hard black box,
Thankfully it has no locks.
I open it in fain,
happy for the end of my pain.
And to my complete horror,
it has golden framed mirror.
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Thoughts of a Juvenile
PoetryWords are sharper than knife they say. Yes it is true. Some perfectly moulded good words can both make and break a heart easily. A poem is a group of such perfectly moulded words given wings to fly. They fly through the mind and heart easily. A hob...
