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A mourning poem about Prim (Hunger Games special)

It was one lovely time,
the time when sunshine caressed my face with a friendly ray and
dried leaves played longingly under my feet.
I had a smile which spread forever,
I had a smile deep rooted within my heart,
the warmth and hope that prolonged from within the organ beneath my ribs.

That time when I had a pair of little and soft hands to hold on to me tight,
finges entwined into one another.
That lovely bud of rose which bloomed
hearing the miner's lost songs of "the hanging tree" and
the healer's hands crushing leaves to let into the mouth of the ill and striken.

The hybrid rose which strikes terror into my being,
haunts my sleep and taunts with the unstricken arrow.
That silver splay of hope which spread from the hover craft,
that pearly bane which spread onto the innocent child's hands,
that which used to spread hope of bread and medicine in the arena,
that which contained the little bundle of distress, licked my body with flame and
conjured the rose up like the one which I threw into the furnace.

It ate my purpose of life,
my motive to enter the games,
It conjured up within the girl on fire,
a nuclear missile to launch into those brains which let the parachutes fly down to the child's hands. 

That weaponry squad which had my childhood companion,
that brain under the innocent attack,
that selfish motive to blast up a million hopes,
that heart which spits fires of vengence and
that feet which has gone in search of a fancy job, money and riches,
leaving my thoughts to myself,
feeling like a detonated bomb lying in the ruins of the abandoned district. 

I am squashed to pulp with the ever longing thoughts of those little hands,
always patting me to comfort,
wiping my tears filled with fury and loss,
healing the sickness out of my body and
stroking my forehead when I most need it to.

I lay on the floor weeping and pouring my sorrowful tears onto Buttercup's dense fur,
as dense as she had been to me and life.
As Peeta gravels the sand to plant her again to my garden,
fresh and blooming, the first sign of life in the victor's village,
I lay there hitting against the pillow and
in desperate search for that tiny violet tablet,
to join the ever warm smile of Prim. In vain.

The Capitol, its residents.
The human beings have turned me "Mentally unstable" and
given me nightmares for the rest of my life.
To die in longing and desperation,
seeking those pair of hands which used to be my refuge once.

They gave me riches, polished my body to gleam as gold,
to paint make-up onto my face and
stole my private life and rolled them onto the cameras.

They gifted me a huge house to live in,
only with the thoughts of the ghosts and nightmares of my past,
of people who will never return and
one drunken ashen faced victor to annoy me with his thoughts. 

But never her, never the born healer and that kind being
whom I so yearn to be with apart from Peeta.



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PSA: GLAM-WHAMs Read on!

Okay. Let's do this.
Some facts are hard to digest but true. To all those pretty people with sour cream 'fairness' masks sploshed on their dusty dusky faces once in every week, the fad dieting extremists whose diet routine involves surviving a whole year through the energy generated by a single pea (Are you the dragon warrior? Tai Lung is on the look out), to all those having a face lift, botox and brouhaha for looking the GLAM-WHAM aunty-next-door (scratch that!). This is a PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT:
Lend me your ears! For the media is ambitious yet honourable! The idealism that you believe which you have set for yourself is an outcome of the billion frames that pass by every time you click the remote to fill your mind with the colours of the junk box. (I'm speaking about the TVs that you either get as freebies for voting for bad-guy-politicians or that flat desirable LCD screen that you've bought online on the TrapFart's Big Bullion Day Offer)
It has infil…

The smells that lacquered 'HOME'.

Turning smelly air into smiley takes a lot of time and effort. But my mother and my grandmother were harbingers of tidying our home and enravelling mystical aroma into the air. I strongly associate some fond memories of my grandmother when I think about the different smells that unfurl at home.

Every morning when I used to wake up by 9:00 AM as a kid, the first person I used to almost see was my grandma. She would be cutting vegetables for my mum to cook. The aroma of turmeric from her golden yellow skin used to waft in the air. When she calls me for bath and to apply turmeric on me, I used to runaway fearing the rabid yellow stains that my face will suffer. But I secretly steal a pinch of the yellow powder just to smell the pungent smell of it. 
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