Wall Poem, by Aman 12, at My poetic side

My neighbor hurls pots and pans made of vowels.

a full‑volume soap opera of thunderous howls.

It can start at dawn, noon, or midnight

a surprise soundtrack with no off‑switch in sight.

When I meet them outside, it’s a plot twist so wild

I start doubting my ears like a confused only child.

Out in the sunshine they are a wholesome parade,

kids bouncing around like commercials for lemonade.

They greet me so kindly it borders on bizarre,

their “Good mornings” are more polished than a luxury car.

They tell me, “Watch our cars when we are off on vacays,”

handing me keys with trust that could fuel three plays.

They send over dishes that could bribe the heavens and skies

one bite and my soul does cartwheels behind my eyes.

I sit there unsure if I should brace or pretend,

With my coffee cup trembling like it wants to ascend.

I swear the common poor wall has a split‑screen brain,

half is a peaceful meadow the other a runaway train.

Or maybe my ears need testing

because honestly, at this rate,

I might send the wall to therapy

before it’s too late.