"When my scarred hand fails to capture your beauty with my pencil,
do you think I'm a flawed artist?"
a messy poetry collection-
Best Ranking:
2nd on poetrycollection (15-4-2023)
4th on poembook (18-4-2023)
5th on wattpadpoetry (18-4-2023)
1st on ra...
The sunlight of a Saturday morning feels different, pouring from a window wide open. Illuminating my pale hand -scars, flaws and all- But in such a coaxing way, that the hands stay mid-air, the skin sun-kissed; warm.
And the tea-pot my mum pours tea from, Into these white dainty cups that I've come to love, Adding the two tea-spoons of sugar like a much loved routine; There is no hurry in the movements, Rather, there is much ease.
My aunt, she asks, why am I awake so early; Out of a bed cramped with sleeping bodies. I shrug my shoulders and offer a smile, And with it a half-truth: homework.
Truth is, it has been a long week, brutal even; Every day I have tried hard not to give up. Just can't stay in bed, let sleep steal me away from reality, when I could be doing something, So that the following week does not feel the same.
Homework, I fail to do, or I do too little. And anyway, breakfast takes too long to be made and eaten. And then, there are dishes to wash, hands to clean, every little task takes ages to complete. How do I sit with my never-ending homework and my too-many thoughts?
Open the laptop, the browser, the email; It is there, too much to do, too little time, Even though it is a Saturday morning. Stay focused, do not get overwhelmed; repeat that in your head, over and over again.
My aunt, she asks, why am I awake so early; Out of a bed cramped with sleeping bodies. I shrug my shoulders and offer a smile, And with it a half-truth: homework. Truth is, it has been a long week, brutal even; Every day I have tried hard not to give up.
