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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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![]() I’m afraid you might have just twisted your pen in the wrong direction causing it to swerve, skid, stop and perhaps be laughed and mocked at like a reckless driver, who’d skip the clarity of roundabouts and speed breakers just to feel the wind leaving frosty footprints on the flushed warmth of rosy cheeks like a photographer, who’d ride a surf-board
into the middle of a frothing sea, and with one single hand, he’d grip his camera lens, and with the other, he’d sift the clouds, push back the stars rip open the sky, and let an eclipse trickle from the entangled roots of blue and as this fiery eclipse would trickle into the waters he’d pause, and then take a snap like an artist, who’d spend hours with this knees digging into the mud, and who’d still emerge with knee-caps of soil just to sketch that dewdrop, that dewdrop midway as it rolls down from the leaf nearly touching the soil like a bangle seller, who’d sit on her haunches, the cracks in her feet pouring with sunlight, moonlight and twilight and she’d display her fingers, that glinted in the sun fingers stained with glitter and glamour the colors of her bangles, the spicy shades of gossip and conversation, and she’d say that she climbs up a ladder, and measures the diameter, the radius of the moon and using these celestial dimension, she makes her bangles and calls these bangles divine I’m afraid you might have just twisted your pen in the wrong direction causing it to swerve, skid, stop and perhaps be laughed and mocked at I’m afraid you might have just written what they call a poem like a photographer, who’d ride a surf-board into the middle of a frothing sea, and with one single hand, he’d grip his camera lens, and with the other, he’d sift the clouds, push back the stars rip open the sky, and let an eclipse trickle from the entangled roots of blue and as this fiery eclipse would trickle into the waters he’d pause, and then take a snap like an artist, who’d spend hours with this knees digging into the mud, and who’d still emerge with knee-caps of soil just to sketch that dewdrop, that dewdrop midway as it rolls down from the leaf nearly touching the soil like a bangle seller, who’d sit on her haunches, the cracks in her feet pouring with sunlight, moonlight and twilight and she’d display her fingers, that glinted in the sun fingers stained with glitter and glamour the colors of her bangles, the spicy shades of gossip and conversation, and she’d say that she climbs up a ladder, and measures the diameter, the radius of the moon and using these celestial dimension, she makes her bangles and calls these bangles divine I’m afraid you might have just twisted your pen in the wrong direction causing it to swerve, skid, stop and perhaps be laughed and mocked at I’m afraid you might have just written what they call a poem Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
November 2023
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