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Asta La Vista Baby
A gentle,
Lapping breeze.
A slight,
Winter chill.
A distant,
Cry of birds.
A peaceful,
Lull of waves.
A passing,
Swimming mermaid.
A blaring,
Faraway fire engine.
A towering,
Threatening dinosaur.
A bleak,
Colourless world.
That pink sweatpants has never been good in my eyes.
And those turquoise nails have always looked strange.
It all changed when you made up a combination of colours.
A colour bomb, a rainbow, walking perfectly through the room, looking like a piece of minimalist art.
I wonder what it is about girls that look like broken glass
Seem a little kinder than the rest
Why they shine brighter
Than the ones made of porcelain and no cracks.
Maybe the distorted parts of them,
Have learnt the art of prism light
At the right angle,
One beam can turn into many colours
And that is what makes
Girls that are like broken glass
So beautiful
They know that light is what you make of it
The oak-tree in front of my house
Smells different every morning.
Sometimes it smells fresh and wise
Like my mother’s hair.
Sometimes it stands ashamed
Because it doesn’t own the smell
It borrowed from our flower-garden.
Sometimes it has a windy smell,
As though it had come back from a long walk.
The oak-tree in front of my house
Has different smells, like grown up people.
My doll hides behind her pink cheeks,
So that you can’t see when she moves,
But it doesn’t matter because
She always moves when no one is looking,
And that is why people think she is still.
Now I am Life's victim —
Cruel victor is he
Who lashes me with colour
Until I ache to see.
Who chokes me with fragrance
Of green things in the rain —
Like a hand around my throat
So sudden is the pain.
Life, I am at your mercy ;
And though till I am dead
You torture me with April
I will not bow my head!