I tell you about my childhood,
my teenage years, my twenties
hoping
wishing
to not share any more stories of coming years
’cause I’d be living those with you.
©kanikachugh
- Micro Poetry
- ...
Will it be or not be?
Worms got me
I see an Earth worm
It disgusts me .
So much so that I
Judge, and judge, and judge
‘Why don’t you grow?
Why this dirt comforts you?
Why are you so slow?’
And let it die
in pretence of helping it.
Then I blame it couldn’t take
the pressure this life offers.
I’m not at fault.
After all I’m a human too,
I did what humans do
Kill!
Rainbows
Why is it most of the times
we only see a part of the rainbow?
It’s to make you believe that
even when you don’t get everything,
you still get a piece that’s worth living for.
When you want to fall in love but all you can do is fall and fall and..
In the mornings,
I see you, I meet you
we exchange some greetings
Initiate small talk and then
we both go our separate ways.
At night, I write letters to you
letters enclosing vulnerabilities
letters carrying intimacy
letters that I’ll never send
hand-written letters that
know the unapologetic, ego-less me,
letters that could have brought us together and made us laugh at 2am in the kitchen
letters in my drawer that chokes to death every night.
Again, in the morning
we see each other, do a small talk
like some religion
and I constantly chant
in the back of my mind
‘You’re not the same person I talk to
every night but oh, I so wished you were’.
And we go our separate ways.
It’s Sunday
It’s Sunday
They say it’s God’s day.
So what do we do? Make a wish?
break an old heavy habit?
take sides of countries in the comments section?
promise to floss our teeth?
inhale the sulfur of insult on a lone road?
shake December hard to shed all leaves?
bury ourselves 10 feet below to
know how it feels to be dead?
It’s Sunday, gentlemen and ladies and all
we should have expected nothing
than a rainbow every Sunday
nothing less than meeting an unknown,
kind stranger on Sunday
nothing less than life to be labelled as
Hell and Heaven as one
nothing less than the lead of a
pencil refusing to omit
nothing less than the inflicted pain
on bruised knees and not by wars
nothing less than finding peace in this chaos.
Eyes, chico!
Gosh!
The eyes reading this
looks so unsure.
Do you know what
I am sure of?
The depth, your eyes
trying to find in these 4 lines.
Remember!
Oceans too, are unsure,
uncertain of their strength.
I say this is it
You go to a thrift store
buy me a cheapest, elegant
china dish
bring it home
and break it.
I say nothing.
You borrow my bag
for the interview
and some of my experience,
then hand me the wait
but celebration to the other.
I say nothing.
I listen to your stories
all night long.
I listen to your complaints
all day long.
But you practice deafness
I say nothing.
I know the secrets
I know all the weaknesses
I play piano with
people’s trigger points, you say.
Oh, my smartness offends you
and my numbness pleases you.
Wet sweater, five Mondays,
undiscovered language, 2mm deep pocket
and a cheap whiskey—I become all
to make you miserable and say nothing.
I say this is it
©kanikachugh
Mama, what should I choose?
So what do you do
when you inherit unlimited kindness
from one parent
and an untapped rage from the other?
Summer! Did you just make me miss you?
I met you in Summer
Hell! You were Summer.
One season that I never was fond of.
I, a girl with an autumn-cold heart
drawing crude caricatures of aloofness.
Guess, which season I miss now!
We have December starting
winters approacing
And I don’t have
any fresh memories to hold onto
or the taste of your first words reviving my bones
or your warm smile to stop my shivers.
How cruel and systematic the universe has to be
to not make me meet you in every season for the first time.
