By: Subhanghi Anandarajah
Longing for everyone around to trace my current, like a shooting star.
For the most part, my passionate self stands by the quirky grains that fill me.
But when the herd arrives, I know I’ll have them scattered.
I wish I was more solid than the well beaming in my front yard,
Except, my rigid anxiety conceals me underneath.
Even now, I strive for “unique.”
But flourishing outside the herd petrifies my current.
Global incidents are aired without a gap:
The groundwork that advances — I probe that longer than the orbit of an accompanying star. Members beckon for the path we’ll draw up.
But if I don’t sound off for the right stance, I panic that ostracism will direct me through a friendless route.
I’ve unearthed my quirky grains as dormant— They need replenishment but the herd is arriving.
Shooting stars ride by my current.
But I will ultimately stride as “unique."