Shazia

A poet for as long as I can remember, I have been the deranged parader of curiosity. I have incessantly vexed my teachers with questions that seemed unbecoming of a child and it was much later that I realised why I asked them. I would never be happy as a slave to the system, wearing myself down day after day, in silent drudgery and subservience. I must know why the sky is blue and not pink and why the grass is green and not white. To ask these questions that seemed abhorrently risible, I sought refuge in poetry and its permission to be as abstract as you could make it. I sought refuge in the malleability of words and semantics the same way water is. It would warp and morph and stretch any way I would draw it, in any amorphous, nonsense form I would sketch out for it. So was born a poet, a patient to the chronic illness of indecision and jaundiced peevishness. What I cannot say, I write and I can only hope it is digestible to your sensibilities. I am a burnt out 17 year old who has blown through growth too fast and can now only lament her lost childhood in either vague verses or vivid diatribes against the corroded system.