THE GIRL WHO READS

This is a fun poem.. A teeny bit hyperbolic.. But it's real all the same. I have many gal pals, but I connect beautifully with those following the same religion as I- Reading. Hope you enjoy readingit as much as I enjoyed writing it (I had to actually tell myself to stop after 15 odd stanzas )

.So this one's for all my girls who don't give a damn to the dark circles borne out of our unending worship rituals, and for the people who love them the way they are. :) 

You’ll find me cooped up in a library

Lost in some novel, oblivious and merry

You’ll find me gaping in a book shop

Like a child coveting a gigantic lollipop

You’ll find me saving pocket money

To buy books not few, but “so many!”

Watching a movie before its book?

It’s a heinous crime I won’t overlook.

Yes, I fall in love and have crushes too

But they’re heroes from classics, not you.

If my bag burst open or you nicked my cell-phone

In there’ll be a dictionary, next to ‘games’ or cologne.

If you have ONLY textbooks and notes in your room,

Then for you I’ll be ‘boring’, (with experience) I assume.

I’m a thinker and at times my thoughts are sublime,

I might not really write, but I do know how to rhyme.

I fall into reveries – I have my own world you know

There I’m a famous sorceress, and my pet’s a Grindylow.

My treasures are made of paper, I already made a will

The bookmarks go to Cathy, and all the novels go to Bill.

Not flowers, but new and crisp pages smell the best

A tear, a food stain, a fold – they give me heart arrest.

Don’t know who’s Gandalf, what’s the Mirror of Erised?

I’ll stare at you incredulously, or just smack my forehead.

Comics and blogs are fast-food, devoured in minutes

Rowling got me crying, Wodehouse had me in splits!

Of the values of different characters, I am a concoction

I often identify events of my life, with those from fiction.

I may be a nerd, a babe, or a freak with hair in beads

I may be a meticulous planner, or go where life leads.

Go on - categorize me as a girl by my looks, caste, or deeds

Yet I’m striking and different because, I’m the girl who reads.

SHE

She gazes into the ornate mirror

And what she observes disgusts her.

With a firm rub she wipes away the rouge

For she has had enough of this delusional life

Living without the withered façade would be wise.

With an unadorned face she sets forth

Wondering what waits is warmth or mirth

The former, a balm, the latter, a catalyst;

She wants to be cherished for the person she is

She wants to stop trying, wants to breathe with ease.

Trying to please everyone, trying to blend,

Trying to be in control, trying to heal and mend.

The cycle must cease, a new path must be paved.

Thoughts, spun into speech, speech, stirred into deeds.

She must take unwavering steps, go where her dream leads.

If mother were here, to hold her close

Wouldn’t she talk of the thorn on the rose?

Neither exists without the other, she’d rightly say.

So what if the new boulevard leads away from the known

Bearing the flame of hope and grit, she must venture alone.

 Some try to discourage, warning her of failure

Some just mock, running in herds, with a fool’s sneer

Efforts beget success, even on paths that are seldom trodden.

She knows the few rare who stand by, will see her through strife.

Thus she dares to shatter stereotypes and be the master of her own life.

So onwards sets she, peaceful yet eager

In a world of puppets, a free incongruous figure.

‘Watch me’, says her mien, ‘as I follow my heart’.

And as they whisper in clusters exhaling pity, contempt and doubt,

A wise crone smiles, ‘That, dear folks, is a woman fit to be sung about.’