Festival time.

Snowy Christmas,
Air crisply laden with cold and frost.
Lips red, red dress,
Santa Ho- Ho, trees with a glossy gloss.

Ringing bells, reindeers in dreams,
Blood red tomatoes, leafy green greens.
Too much to celebrate, and so many smiles around,
Festivities galore in the air, more than ever seen.

She puts on her dress and smacks on some lipstick,
And steps out to be a part of the celebrations.
Dreams in her eyes, a wishing wand in her hand,
She is busy weaving her dreams into stories, some mute, SOME WITH UNPRECEDENTED ANIMATION.

– Stuti


Her own style.

She put on a mask and carried on with her everyday,
Trying to be what it was supposed to be,
Vowing to be there with the seemingly ‘always- right’ gentry.

She wore a smile, and slapped on some lipstick,
Red, bright, confident, and twirly,
Heels high, thoughts windy.

It amazed her how comfortable people were with two faces at a go,
It amazed her even more that in just some time and going,
She was there too. Two faces. In her one being.

She had grown on it all, or had it all grown on her?
She had started enjoying it all, or was it enjoying her?
Her mask of the right (huh!). Her mask of the twirly.

And now when she is knee deep in this game of ‘I’m-here-to-prove-myself’,
She finds it tough to go back, and take off her make up,
And so she only wears a smile, and slaps on some more lipstick, and fights it all anyway. HER OWN STYLE.

– Stuti