Painting Stars - A Poem By Mounica

The clock strikes twelve 

And I try to see the stars beyond the dusty air

Shining on their own against a dark canvas;

I paint my canvas the same dark hue,

Hoping I make stars of my own.

Excited, hopeful and motivated,

I dip my paintbrush in stardust;

I'll make my stars bleed purple,

For it's my canvas.

The clock strikes one 

And the brush slips from my fingers,

Anxiety slips through the cracks in my paint;

And I rush to perfect my stars.

The real ones take millennia to form,

Humans do not have the same luxury.

I paint them over and over again,

My fingers shake and I grow frantic,

Desperate to create my own bright star.

The clock strikes two 

And suddenly the canvas looks bleak.

The dark color has an ominous feel to it,

And my mind chokes me with the same darkness.

My brush pauses, I try to recall why I started;

I look up, and I can't see the stars anymore. 

Why shine if you fade when dawn breaks?

Why rush to live when you die anyways?

The brush slips again; this time I don't pick it up.

- Mounica, BA final year.