A wrinkled page drowned in tears and scribbles,
she memorised each word,
3 times now
in the shower, to the mirror,
late at night when her classmates were sleeping.
It was hard to believe those words were hers,
especially when she barely spoke-
she lived a mundane life of a rose in a field of aristolochia’s
a constant misfit who remained
caressed by their unfortunate norms.
but in the summer of ’89,
as the last standing tree embraced the grounds,
a new sunrise emerged-
the monotony began to fade,
she finally mastered her mettle,
an intoxicating flavour,
bitter at first but it managed to
You would assume she would cavort,
but she picked up a pen-
and an old piece of paper cornered in a shelf,
aggressively scribbling away in a sonorous manner,
relishing the words that were no longer confined.
but, as the words dried out,
she heaved a sigh of relief,
taking time to admire the crowd,
her fear had dwindled and
her voice had finally ripened.