Over the shoulder
you fling the pang away
and move on with-
pockets empty.

Sitting aside a-
mausoleum- listening to
the songbirds.

Why do you build a huge
crypt for your love? In summer
noon I will keep on thinking.

From thumb to thumb
I will ask of the ambience-
while building this place.

In your land now grows hate
and anger. The finish is gone,
and finesse suffers.

The **** faces still haunt me.

I found a tiny piece of paper
With something scribbled on it
It reads,
"You are not worthless
Work hard and shut everyone's
**** mouth with it"
I smiled and remembered
I wrote it when I was scolded
By my mother in front of my whole class
When I got really bad marks in my Maths test(Ps:still a nightmare).
She screamed and said
"You can't do anything"
Also she said she is ashamed to even come to attend my PTM.
I was so humiliated at that time I cried like a 3 year old. Also everyone got their share of gossip.
I WAS THE JOKE NOW.
Now everytime anyone saw me studing , enacted like my mother in front of me. Or even worse....they would say "Dude padh le varna aunty na....she is very strict na..''
At that time I had no choice to study and keep myself motivated (thus I wrote this paper).

Final exams results came
I got highest marks in my class and have done extremely good in my maths test.
I was so happy and contented.
Every joke on me had an answer now.

Now what is the need to share this incident.?
Actually there is....I just want to question each parent why they attach their status in the society with the marks of their children ???
See I will not say what my mom did was wrong because her intension was in the right place.. infact her words ignited the fuel inside me. (She knows how to use the reverse psychology)

Also marks can be improved by either ways but why we adopt the strict one all the time???

JUST TAKE A MOMENT AND THINK ABOUT IT.
(Cuz your whole life must have faced this scenario once in your life).

Also share your opinions on this story.

To read a map―
listening to your inner voice, for
changing the green color
of eyes.

I was studing you,
in the caravan of desert,
leaving the roots
going nowhere.

I will wait for the fall
to pick up my crisp, memories
breaking off from―
the sad trees of life.

Stepping stones were
beautiful, not the feet. I might
have erred in draping the
people who were fake.

Sometimes you mourn
the vision of dying moon.
It will not bleed―
till you cry.