Wednesday, 26 June 2013

Fickle.

Fickle

Darling, this is something you should know about me,
Befitting the romantic fool that I am.

That day I wanted to be,
A morning runner.
I loved the dull pain that would stray to
My ears and temple after the icy air
Bit me as I ran. I was never quick enough;
The wind laughed at me sarcastically,everywhere.

Another day dawned when I decided to be
A portrait artist.
Every face I looked at was an enigma in its
Own right, and several times my brittle
Pencil broke. Soon the thick creamy paper was
Covered in smiles, both smudged and noncommittal.

Under a pale summer sky I thought I'd make a good
Star gazer.
I could just stand there and sigh, at the laughable
Insignificance of the sparkly pebbles they called
Diamonds .Even in my deep frenzy I was frustrated;
I cried in the light of the day,waiting for darkness to fall.

On a rainy afternoon i wrote a poem and hoped I could be
A writer.
I dreamed of telling stories that were true and titillating 
And penning poems that would sing impassioned.
So I wrote, till my fingers bled and my soul bled harder,
In naked fervour. Then I fell asleep sweaty and drained.

Over the years I tried, a mountaineer, a historian, a Prima Donna, a cat-rescuer, a deep-sea diver.

People mocked my flimsy resolve, you may too.
Would it suffice if I said, that the only thing I've stuck with,
Is You?


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