Love, it’s never gonna stop…

Posted on by Kanika


Music crawls out of the speakers,
boredom resides in the womb of bass.
The notes, the rhythm has a pull
Icy and numb but so dull. 
Like knives un-sharpened for a new prey
to give a slow, painful death.
The scales wait at the doorstep
and see you dying on absent keys.
It’s melancholic music
only enters the ears seeking it,
or the hearts with granite sitting on it.
It doesn’t feel heavy anymore.
Feet chained, or back slouched.
It matches the beat and tempo.
Music activates the part of the brain,
the part they said “You’re too much” for.

©kanikachugh

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And that’s how you rest the case

Posted on by Kanika

You let out a heavy sigh,
gulp down icy cold water,
shut your eyes tight, briefly.
No rebuttal, no debate.
Let silence adorn your throat.

There are people who understand your silence,
and there are people who deserve nothing but your silence.

Give them the glory of their ‘win’.
Your victory is walking away
with grace in heart and head held high.

©kanikachugh

Happy World Poetry Day

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Calm energy

Posted on by Kanika

Calm people always have a different aura. Their energy, their softness, their unburdened presence possesses a soothing  touch that one feels lighter and shinier around them. It’s as if they calm your thunderstorm down in a single embrace. It’s not talked about too much or appreciated enough. The tiredness you feel slipping away from your body because you’re surrounded by something so peaceful, you forget something was holding you down. I always say, power of ordinary is extraordinary.

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Tortured and Deaf

Posted on by Kanika


Why do I become tone-deaf
to my own imagination?
And a lighthouse to
guide their wings forward.
I sit back and wonder
what would work for me?
Implosion, explosion, exorcism,
Qi wellness, herbal remedies,
gospels, temples, churches,
dopamine, serotonin,
sunlight or moonlight
It has to be somewhere.
The cure.
The cure for not torturing yourself
for weak memory, for recycled art,
for enhanced magical delusions,
for undiagnosed inflated ego.
It resides in me somewhere,
the dark matter of the universe
that makes me unrecognisable
like a flattened dime.
It is somewhere in me,
a really cool colourful crayon box
that loves to paint my bones,
or the walls of my exiled room.
It is there somewhere,
otherwise I’d have to admit.
I was born to create art.
I was born to torture my soul
until it becomes tone-deaf to art.

©kanikachugh

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Will you pick it up?

Posted on by Kanika

Will you come back and pick up your belongings lying breathless in your old room? Will you reclaim the home you once fled from? Will you pick up the ghost-leaf that rests on your window sill, a relic of the last autumn that passed without you?

Will you come back and pick up the dreams boxed-up under your bed? Will you pick up your nobody-self, who knew the real you, now that you are someone? Will you return for the last raindrop that stopped falling after you left? Will you pick up your old journal, the one you swore never to read?

Will you face it all, picking up the pieces of your former bronze self, now that you’ve become gold?

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Closer! Closer! Closer and then it’s a blur

Posted on by Kanika


The edge of a leaf, tip of a nose, head of a pen,  the weight of grief…. bring it closer and closer until it dissolves into haze.


“Ignorance is bliss” they say. Feign it until it fades. Forget that it exists — the fields of agony, the intoxication of limerence, an era of distrust.


The world is too close that it can rust. The world is too distant to marry it. Eyes shatter at the ugly truth of it. The mirror disturbs; the baggage cracks the concentration. So, I am learning to unsee.


Thick ice on a hilltop, fog vanishing in the rain, a starless heaven with squinted eyes. All are like you — distant, distant and distant until it’s a blur.


©️kanikachugh

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A little life…

Posted on by Kanika

How can you say non-living things do not have life living inside of them? These things breathe, reminisce, sigh out the essence of a person they were last used by. Every remnant, every corner reeks of their earlier presence and you try to find that person in bits and pieces. The slippers they wore before, the pan they cooked in, the tie they showed off, the books they touched, the lamp they bought for you, all these lifeless objects hold a tiny light of their owners. You could make a whole human out of the parts they left themselves in. It’s too hard to see these objects not breathing in their persona anymore.


Things do not make a room look empty. The absence of someone using them does.

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I saw you at the doorway

Posted on by Kanika


Feet to the ground, a smile in the eyes
I think I dreamt
when I saw you at the doorway.

The soul absorbs memories, settled like dust particles
I surely witnessed those particles
glowing in your light.
I was too much of myself for you in that moment.

My head disconnected from my heart
my heart astounded by my fanning hands

It was you at the doorway.
It was you, or
An expensive, delicate Winter’s Sun

©️kanikachugh

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Chapter Girl

Posted on by Kanika

I’m just a chapter girl
a girl from a random part of the story no one remembers.
I’m the girl friends forget to invite.
I’m the girl cousins don’t mention to their kids.
An NPC in my own game.
I’m not the girl you root for in a novel,
Just a bystander, a friend of a friend of the protagonist,
existing only to push them further in their story.
I’m a girl far from popularity,
a girl who is good in college
not good enough for the hall of fame,
nor bad enough to linger in the minds and
tongues of teachers or professors.
I exist. I just exist.
In a square, a block, walled in on every side.
My role is limited to a single chapter,
where no one remembers that I never got closure,
not even the writers themselves.

©️kanikachugh

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I feel it

Posted on by Kanika

I feel it too much
those lines I highlight in my current novel,
the black necklace somebody gifted and forgot,
dried sunflower still in a glass full of water,
my apron’s pocket full of herbs by my mother,
those coffee breaks where I miss my best colleague,
my journal’s empty pages where I scribble and scribble until it holds nothing.
I feel it all, in the darkest of hours or in the crack of the dawn.
Feelings stick with me like a leech who eats you up. I wish I could feel less. But then I think I would probably live less.

©kanikachugh

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