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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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FEBRUARY 15th, 2012

What writing means to me...

As lonely as a cloud, as boring as boredom itself, I was. I grew up as a typical child at school but a very hefty one, I am still the same. I managed to cheer people with my innocence but did not manage to make happy friends to last a lifetime because of my gross physique. I couldn't play as I had no playmates at home and my only hobby was to sit and watch tv.

When I was studying in kindergarten, I used to visit a nearby shop with my dad. My dad was busy shopping for groceries and I engaged myself in observing things around me. The people who had mixed emotions that outshone on their faces, an old man cycling with a lot of strain, probably getting back home, the lady vendor with her dirty saree pinned up to her waist and squatting on the floor, selling vegetables, the autowala bargaining with his potential customer, the green trees which arched high with its countless leaves, the flowers that smile at me on the road side, happy child…