By Anushka Gupta
Art — a curse accepted as a gift.
A subject chosen, fifth,
Renounced to satiate stomach needs,
But hunger is much less than what mortal seeks.
A lot of pain it brings,
Being able to rationally think,
You fall back when the fictitious cuffs hurt,
To pen it down for those who lack the curse.
At four, I loved the poems and rhymes,
Six, I drew leaves, poppy and trees of pine,
Ten, I played to burn the oily fryums,
By twenty, they quit life and so did I.
So I took the customary boat,
Years passing, playing with notes,
Waiting for some guts to afloat,
To barter paper notes with a creative toast.
I demand, to surrender this pain,
Easy, be a slave at a remunerative place,
The exquisite exchange I made,
For being someone else, I get paid.
By Anushka Gupta
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