Month: June 2022

How many times have you built a home,
in how many places,
In how many moments,
in how many people?
Don’t you get bored? Or tired?
especially when you’re one of the snails making it.

One big round stone that requires minimum 10 hands and 50 motivational speeches each day to lift it.
Rolling through life
making where you could
not where you wanted.
The morning drudgery work again,
calling an unknown ground home at night.

How many times your smartwatch will tell you how far you are from home..
How many times you’ll change favourites in Google maps.

Home wasn’t supposed to change so often.
It was supposed to be warm, clingy, run-of-the-mill, home-baked-cake-fragrant walls.
where no one could see you clenching your teeth or curling toes.

Home was supposed to sing
and nod along your shaky tunes.
And the roof to protect you from thunderstorms,
from up and beneath.
It was supposed to make you wanna do forbidden things
without having to give up on your easy happiness.
A fairy land with huge moons
not a dim lit room with melting wax.

Home- all the beauty and the flowers;
and you, looking from afar like a wandering star.

I am such a needy person.
I need to have everything.
I need the stars, the moon,
the birthday candles,
picnic baskets,
tiny predictions,
chameleon memory,
Polaroid pictures,
hands that hold,
hands that feed,
a Five star hotel,
a burger van.

I need,
No two consecutive nights crying,
unlimited times of messing up,
A rush to change the world,
a clock to lock good things in,
a north pole of fiery dreams,
a south pole for my criminal words,
the lamps that would flicker
in the test of time.
I need to know my
eulogy before I die.
I need all
and I’d would pack
it in a flower metal box
and place it under a small
tree of an olive family
passing its essence into the roots.
So, when I would wear a
Lilac cardigan I would
know I have everything.

©kanikachugh

It’s just june and the world’s

unkindness is already at its peak.

Protect yourself at all costs.

©kanikachugh

There is a certain
dexterity my diary holds
of frowning ironies and
gypsy butterflies.
With tragic notes like a
daily reminder from a suffering ‘Sylvia’,
and the harvest of words I reward myself with your spring beauty,
it suffocates and rejoices.

You don’t know even
half of your beauty
that resurrects the dead hearts
and resuscitates my old papers
dying below the weight of
everlasting winter flakes.
And my words don’t even know
half of the vocab to describe you
filling up the boring spaces between us
by holding the moon in a spoon.

My tongue lifts to trace
your essence in some
literal symbols
so tender to touch,
so far away like clouds
that fills up my sky
with their moving smiles
and opaque nature.
Making me wonder
if my words will ever be able
to penetrate you like
an holy attempt of sunshine.

Some days,
my diary holds
gape(s) and gasp(s)
and all sorts of drama
in Gothic style.
The other days
It produces a visual
of you as my new Lord
waiting to be worshipped.

I appear, my veil ugly
the gravity around me, uglier
knowing you love the outcasts.
I gaze at you
with fondness.
You look at me
with pitiful eyes.
But I know, I have words
And words will
take your heart away.

I would have choosen death
over sympathies, anytime
but knowing it’s you
I chose to live
And my mute book,
to scream your
appreciation in 26 letters
to pass on the stories
to our great-grandchildren
of how we met,
Because
There were only words,
words were all we had
to take our hearts away.

Love wins when
you see only love
and not abominations.