Bits from 'On Hoarding', a poem by Pragya Lal. (@pdawg).
Filed, folded, labelled I have hoarded Twenty fours years of being In these cartons
When I was younger I didn't realise how much Of adulthood is spent Packing and unpacking Making and missing meaning
This box here
Is for Postcards and birthday greetings
Scribbled with handwritten messages
That remind me — time travel is real
These talismans take me to places
With no visa, passport or ticket
We are all dual citizens
Constantly shuttling between nostalgia and the present.
Illustrations by Radhika Sivsankar (@radhika_sivsankar) and Sanithra Raju (@genreofawesome) for @thelookoutjournal.
Click link in bio for the full poem from our March-April issue.
Manor No. 7
It dripped down the walls,
Pooling in the center of the room.
So much blood,
As if the house
Were bleeding out.
Trapped in the corner
Eyes locked to that viscous puddle
Which began to pulse
Before lurching up
Taking the shape
Of a twisty wrecked man.
It was that thing
That giggled at him
As it crept close.
Trying to drag
From the bloodied wreck
That stalked him,
The horror he’d seen
In the last
With sharpened claws I am ready to tear down the walls I put up to keep you out; the constant nag of your shrill confusion, beating me, bruising my tired heart; Left with only the wounds that I started with, I am finally ready to conquer your summit; My broken spirit, now bandaged in what if's and soon to be's; What ever the challenge, I will come out victorious.