The Crusades of Recuperation

Things come striking back,

And, all small ideas swarm around you.

 

You must come back to me,

To solve the puzzles you created.

You must come back, for me to proliferate.

Come back to return things you never returned.

Come back, to reason out the reasons beyond my reasoning.

Come to witness my failing attempts to witness you in words.

 

Seek your stare while I pick and sketch,

Intricacy studded amid daily chores.

Be at my shoulders and I’ll paint,

All shades of grey to federal-blue.

Be there and get my equations right,

In return I’ve nothing but more equations, though.

 

Things come striking back,

And, everything else swarms around you.

turning 21!

Here I dwell playing with my crayons:

Scribbling wall, colouring my fantasies.

I let here out my neat paper boat:

Thinking it`ll bring back the kite that flew out.

May be I should grow up.

.

I litter my room of thoughts; with thoughts.

I dwell in envy for not having a doll of simplicity.

I still hurt my hand with that garden trowel:

See this wound; this was when I last sowed a thought.

Yes, I need to grow up.

.

I’m short, need to heighten my perception.

I’m frail, need to strengthen my patience.

I leap around, forgetting home I must go,

Cross roads boggle me, don`t know where to go.

God, please help me grow up.

.

Yet, I like sending boats, scribbling walls,

Playing soil, getting hurt and losing my kites.

May be I need a real tooth of wisdom,

Only then will i be able to solve the perplex:

Do I need to grow up?

.

.

P. S.: random, perplexed thoughts on turning 21. They say, once you stumble the age of 21, you`re grown up. But i don`t understand what being grown up is. This bothers more than my peeking wisdom tooth. May be you could help me:]