The absence of poetry

The words I took refuge in are no longer in plenty,I made it to the college I dreamt of but it's been reduced to a facade for me,someone I was in love with picked another person and there remains even no shadow of small talk anymore.

It would suffice to say this year was one of experiences because that's what you get when you don't get what you thought you would.I watched the sun sink behind rooftops last evening,the second last time this year,it looked like it left watercolour shadows on the clouds,while it skidded its way to sleep.Blackbirds and crows flew homeward,encompassed by a sense of direction that guided them home at dusk,one I was envious of.I've almost forgotten how sunsets meant a sense of comfort to me.

I moved to another city,one full of strangers,one where I'm a stranger,myself and although people tell me roots can change,the sense of home can shift,I can only wonder if it will.

There is no poetic justice about growing older,only dramatic irony.There is no emptier feeling that not having the power of the very words that led you exactly where you wanted to be.What point or purpose does an achievement have if it takes away what you believed in.My friend says we could shout from rooftops,what we've learnt about ourselves.We could wear the realisation that we're too romantic for a nine to five working week like a badge of honour,but it wouldn't change a thing other than the fact that we're not soft enough to be moulded,not cut out to fit in and only we can try working our way around it.

Change is the abundance of verse,which does not mention ketchup,refer to books read and yet there is space for new friends to watch stars under a blanket on Friday nights with and ones who read out poetry on park benches,over cheap Chinese food.There is a body made up of the discovery that for every image we know,there is an alternative reality,there are people who will give you roses to press in between in pages of a journal,old friends who will make you forget all that seems uncertain,

I've lived most of this year rationed out in weeks and months,semesters and holidays,let downs and heartbreaks,Yet,I'm here to hope,to believe there's better.
I guess I've done a bit of growing up this year,the most evident life skill I've picked up is to shut people out (quite literally),hole myself in a closet of a room all weekend,cramped in with my apprehensions.All that once seemed pretty no longer does and I don't know how to feel about it but in the absence of poetry,I've been looking for an abundance of refrains.

Sitting here in the underbelly of a wave,for I have swallowed a sea of all that could have been,I'm here, hoping for a little more poetry.

Lessons learnt in room 27

 Twenty seven,an obscure number in an equally obscure space designated the purpose of higher education.

Sitting here,one can hear the mechanical swish of the flurry of everyday activity,the metro going by,the corridors emptied out of students who have now entered classrooms,being mopped spotless. Leaves of frangipani trees stand lacquered in sunshine,outside the little square windows,as I learn nothing textbooks can teach.
 I discovered that caffeine is much like popular culture,if you can't consume it excessively,it isn't culture at all(So is tea an equivalent,because it's a statement the intellectual use to perpetuate their own subculture,but will probably not admit to) and almost nothing comes in one colour.Not people,not culture,not life.It's never only black,white,roseate.I realised the futility of hoping for somebody who tells you you're a colour they haven't imagined yet,because then,you're probably not a colour they welcome on their palette any longer.
You cannot belong to someone or some place,cannot fit in,because you're a dream not meant for a coffin or a skeleton to be tucked into a coffer box in a cupboard.
You are the colour of the wind-all embracing in its invisibility.
You need not be a youtube phenomena or a firebrand feminist to feel entitled to just feel the way you do,you need no validation to be too independent in your childlike demeanour to mould your life around the idea of an institution,to be outlined neatly with a cookie-cutter like label of this or that,because you can choose to be this,that or neither.
You are the colour no one can contain in words,disappointing and hopeful,alike.You are the colour you paint yourself with choices,a transcendent feeling.