I settled on my Gran’s dilute lap,
An unfledged sprog acquiring comprehensive love.
I frolicked with my Crayola’s,
As she instilled her knowledge of penning upon me.
Hugged by a floral frock and beaded bands,
I focused my attention on Shakespeare’s labour.
As I embraced my Gran,
Teasing the inherent, ruddy waves of mine, she continued reciting.
Unconscious, I was jubilant,
Revering on the many possibilities.
I now nestle at a cold place called home.
An assailable juvenile being judged by ‘friends’.
I sign-in to witness malicious notes from churlish beings,
Roaming the online world, driving innocence to suicide.
Crayola’s no more, I desperately clench a Bic,
And apply myself to paper, clinging to my sanity.
My Gran’s no longer as I locomote to my bunk,
Where I indulge in such metaphors.
But now I lie alert,
Where have all the possibilities gone?
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