Metanoia.

In the time-worn canvas, 

A child’s doll

Rests 

With a crack in the face

Spiralling down, 

Aching muscles strewn aside, 

Disregarded.

The mind 

Becomes an archive 

Of old cassettes 

That used to play fancy lullabies 

But now smell of 

Spilled liquor 

And guarded smiles.

The most evidential part 

Of growing up is 

Realising 

You cannot always keep 

The ones you love.

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A new journey.

My morning started with a text message from a very dear one,

‘When there is a will, there is a way. Go ahead, young girl.’

Suddenly, I knew what it meant, rather what it exactly meant to me at this point of life.

I knew it was time to start new and trust the magic of beginnings.

I knew it was time to reveal those charming secrets to the autumn wind.

I knew it was time to talk about hidden bruises, to dance to the rhythm of the happy snowflakes.

I knew last night’s scars would be healed soon by a ray of hope.

Footsteps traced my way to the shelf where a million untouched pages lay, each waiting for a different story, each craving to bear a new experience.

I grabbed some and started to fill them, each of them, one by one.

 To my amazement, I found thoughts,tightly knotted in strings of words.

I found a strange comfort in the smell of ink,spilled over the clean papers.

I found a staircase to an undiscovered galaxy built up inside my own brain.

 

And, I bled before love.



Only this time, this twenty-seventh time, it was not for a person, but for words.