-Class-
You sit there making songs,
out of night that endless grew.
Not into right or wrong,
You left yourself and it flew.
The chalk screams and breaks into you,
as vines near the window mockingly smiles.
And the room felt empty beside few,
Your dazed bruised knees falls to rest like tiles.
"Shut up" a voice screams,
as if to shut you, a seemingly dead silent fantasy.
But the trickles of rain from breams,
makes you vivid, invincible and saasy.
The flipping of pages slows down,
this clicking of pen is a music.
Those chatter you don't hear are her crown,
and your poem the queen with eternal magic.
Those colourless clouds are art,
these pens, pages, chairs and desks are colours.
Nothing exists that can thwart,
Your stroke of pen and creation of a lover.
You fly and float,
in that perpetual sea.
"This is the end of three men in a boat"
and you die in the waking of thee.
Your dead self curses,
You are a lazy and loser lass.
You throw scolding your verses,
"Shit man,I missed my whole class."
-Tithi...
