Poetry, Writer life

In fairy tales she lived,
Magic, she chased
She was just a girl,
Who refused to grow up.  

Love was pious
Saved it, for her perfect one
Someone meant just for her
Someone she was meant for.  

Naive little girl
She fell in love.
She was all his
And he was only her.

Only to be deserted by her beloved
Her fragile heart, broken to pieces
She cried for days and questioned faith
Pretty little girl, she had to move on.

It’s wasn’t easy for her,
To once again trust or believe,
But she convinced herself,
To believe in fairy tales once again.

Then came an angle,
Who swooped her off her feet
Mended her broken her
Reignited the magic within.

Alas! But who would have suspected
Their castle would burn to ashes.
Hating each other, they parted ways
Pretty little girl, broken once again.

Then the cycle began
She fell in love, fell out of love
Until she was tired of it
Until there was no magic in it.

With no faith in love
She resorted to meaningless fling
Tried not to get attached
To protect her fragile heart.

That’s how she got a new reputation,
Pretty naive girl turned to slut!
But she has a question in her mind
Why are men never called that name?!

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Featured image by: Meg on Unsplash

Strangling Curiosities

Poetry, Writer life

As I look into the deep blue sky

I wonder, why is that colour called blue?

Why not green? Why not red? Or any other name?

Who came up with that word?

We call our nose, ‘nose’

We call our mouth, ‘mouth’

But who came up with all these words?

How did the language system begin?

How are the rules of the world set?

How does everything happen?

Why don’t we have wings?

Are their mermaids in the ocean?

As I went on asking these

‘Don’t ask stupid things!’

That’s what people said

Strangling my curiosities.

Twinkling eyes full of wonders

Curious mind full of question

I went on and on

My curiosity knew no bound.

Even now I’ve got questions

I wonder time to time

But I simply brush them away

Strangling my curiosity.

Am I killing the kid in me,

By strangling my curiosity?

Is this how we grow old?

Or is it just me?

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash