The clock strucks three
And I silently walk up
to my mother ;
I tell her that I wish
to write a book, a tragedy
where I would name the
protagonist Anna.
And Anna won't grow
her hair long for a prince
to fall in love.
My heroine would kill
a king , pin his head
on to a wall,
weave a tiara out of
his blood soaked hair
and sip wine in
strange cities.
I tell her that my mind
isn't a quiet place,
that I still scribble
poetries at midnight
and more than his paintings,
Van Gogh's death inspires
me.
I bend a little closer and
reach her ears to whisper
that her love keeps
barking at me , asking me
to not fall in love.
And that noise doesn't
let me sleep.
I am awake since ages.

The alarm clock rings
and I wake up ;
Six in the morning
And I find her awake :
My mother!

©my_cup_of_poetry