Wednesday, February 6, 2013


I goo boo away incoherently
To the rest of the world
It s mere gibberish
My mom finds a
Tiny SuKi in me
A word, a step, a smile
And a nod
All signs of a child prodigy
For my mom.
I raise my hand at arithmetic
To ask if three and four
And six and two are the same
My teacher looks at me
From behind her blinkers
To see if I m still sane
My mom sees a math genius in me
I  dab a red and paint a blue on the corridors
My mom finds it modern and quite like Picaso
I grow up and decide
That I shall advocate right and wrong
The world looks at me and asks
What is wrong with you?
A few friends even give me a second look
But many even refuse to take one.
My mom only says,
"Go on and you will be alright."
Today I m neither advocate nor Picaso.
My world is full of précis and recipes
Punctuated by verbs and frosting.
I told the world what I love
The world did what it is only good at.
What nonsense! It exclaimed.
My mom quietly said,
"Of course! It makes perfect sense."

I wish to get my story published in Chicken Soup for the Indian Entrepreneurs Soul in association with This poem is an effort.

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