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Poetry By: Shweta

This sucks and I'm always bad at having a summery of my poems.

Submitted:Nov 27, 2011    Reads: 72    Comments: 9    Likes: 2   



I thought once; how you would behave with

My stone heart; if I ever bestowed upon you.

You would tend it with the puny benevolent

Love you have racing through your veins.

Or, simply you would just put it in a pot

And, put that pot on a pious blue flame

To make a potpourri of "stone soup."

Thinking that might make out something

Of this weed growing among the salubrious crops.

Garnishing and seasoning were needed thereafter,

But the villagers were not fools like in the story.

They instead laughed at you and called you a moron.

Sensing this, you realized what a pest you were going

To make out of yourself enacting this abortive act.

Pragmatic as ever, you knew what to do next;

You picked it up within your fist and hurled it

Among all other stones; gigantic stones, pygmy stones.

Where it righteously belonged; stones among stones.

And who to blame?

"My stone heart."

My heart is a stone which refuses to melt and flow.


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