Of fantasies and paperworlds...

I was only five years old,
holding pen scribbling down stories
of fairies and ghosts,
and dolls coming alive in the midnight.
When I was in first grade
I wrote fantasies galore
and my mother was so proud of me,
but as my assignments heaved my schoolbag
In seventh grade,
my mother never read my stories,
as she was in loss of time
When I reached grade ten,
my teachers pulled me to the side,
told me to stop living in a paper world
and handed me the reality,
reality so unreal just as you forget to breathe.
That day onwards I didn’t bring my stories home
never showed them to my mum.
They say I am a bright kid made to blossom
when they’ve only seen my skin
and not the untamed world I hide,
that’s growing deep within.
They haven’t heard my ribs all creak,
behind each plaited vine
or swum beneath the waterfall,
that cascades down my spine.
They haven’t climbed the branches,
that are wrapped around each lung
swaying with the breezes
that come dancing past my heart.
So, I wove myself into blooming metaphors
amidst the scintillating cacophony
like an open book so tightly woven
that one seldom understands
and my poetry is so much like a broken syllable,
of little things, unpronounced,
misread, misunderstood, mistaken and
entangled with misplaced words and emotions.
Now when they say I am snow-laced cold,
let me tell you that you, you never deserved my spring