Ticking clocks

- Sweekriti

I was born in a house with ticking clocks,

where silence screamed louder than words.

A thousand words echo - but none are my own.

"Potential" is just the word they throw at me, while I stand there being "just average".

So, I run, with the dreams tied up in report cards.

I run, to the room of my childhood echoes, where I open the trunk of my childish giggles.

An old paintbrush lay waiting, which I once abandoned for not making perfect strokes.

The brush is now stiff with dry colours.

The same colours with which I once painted v- shaped birds, triangle shaped mountains, cloud shaped trees and imperfect square shaped houses.

The birds have flown, the trees shed its leaves and the bricks of the houses have fallen with the burden of being, "perfect".

And there I sit in silence,

Singing lullabies to the toys with missing eyes.

I sit there with the burden of losing something, I never knew I was losing...