8th March, 2014
MuddyI am not intentionally a failure. I walked once upon a snowcapped hill and found a wounded humming bird. It looked at me helplessly and as I reached down to fix those ruffled feathers, it flew away. Much like myself, the bird too had a maliciousness that empowered it. I am not an ideal mess. I am the blistering heat in a drought infested wasteland. When faced with a predicament, I crumble like the remains of a paper thin moth. The conflict inside me reflects the battles I imagine as real in the heavens. The flow of energy in me is lost to vaporised harmony. I am a whispered sweet nothing in the voice of a harlot. I am the shadow that goes unnoticed at night. I am the masked impressionist, the wearer of the pretty red bracelet. I am now, what the world has come to expect of me.
Poetry by Sharanya Venkataraman
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Written on 2015-08-20 at 18:19
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