Vase.

I imagined myself as a solid vase,
having a set of true colours,
and the strength to contain
the secrets of the world.

But I am still a piece of clay,
gyrating in the hands of people
disguised as potters.

Each running a hand,
skilled or unskilled,
giving me a shape,
and a direction to incline.

Fingers are those which make me,
and break me.
Some pointing at me,
and some pointing away from me.

Unaware of my outcome,
and frightened by the potters,
I do as they say.

“Of course I cannot sculpt myself,
it’s foolish and daring.
I will rotate until
they are tired of playing.”

I contemplate.
I feel the joy of admiration,
and nightmares of crashing.

Can I be a vase?
Or is being a vase
the potter’s false dream?

 

 

Sukanya.

Treasure.

Crack me open,
like a piggy bank,
or an easter egg
like an excited child.

Crack me open,
and gold will pour
out of my soul.

Find the treasure buried,
right beneath the rubble,
of a war once happened
inside my head.

Shining, glistening,
shimmering in the mind,
in the form of sweet words
and good deeds.

And once you find it,
we’ll share it in half
because I helped you find it.
My treasure.

 

 

Sukanya.
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