December 2016

Why Do We Need Love?

So I stopped, and looked at him, thinking how broken a person must be to be able to spread that brokenness in this world. Teaching the leaves to leave the tree, the flowers to perish and the light to disappear. Looking at him made me realize that the world is already a broken place to live in why bother to make it even more unworthy of all the lives? He stood there waiting for my reponse to his question, “why do you think this world deserves love?” Like a bell tolls in the highest towers of a city the same way this question kept ringing in my head. “Why does this world need love, indeed? When all people hold on to in their hearts is indifference? Why bother opening your heart and letting someone in for them to move out with all your pieces in the end? Why does one need love?” Knowing that I didn’t have any answer to his question he took a few steps back, turned away and left.

With the feeling of the very same jolt of unendurable pain in the body; increased feverishness and deliriousness, my mouth went dry and my mind, numb.

“One needs love because it’s the ultimate salvation to the shipwreck of a life.”


My Body, Part 3

Words, really misunderstood creatures.

I have always been a girl who believed that words are a waste of emotion. Saying something out loud would weaken the essence with which the emotion is felt. The path from the heart to the mouth would work its magic on them and something else would come out. Sure there were times when i wanted to scream out loud with what I had in my heart but nothing came out except for a feeble cry. My words collected in my throat and made a home there, but this silence is getting too loud now.
My body has always been the one for talking, one just has to have the correct ear for it. When I look into your eyes I see galaxies floating. When I hear you breathe I think of strong spring breeze that whispers sonnets in my ears. When I look at you, I feel like opening my eyes up to the first ray of Sun after spending my whole life in a dark box. When I look at your body I feel like looking at a constellation. Your smile feels like a thousand rainbows shining together at me making making this black and white canvas full of colours. My touch writes poetry all over you. When I hear your heart beat that’s all I ever want to hear. My unspoken words are not unspoken if you hear carefully. This body has always been the one to talk. You just have to have the ear for it.

Muse: Nimisha Verma

My Body, Part 2

Is my body perfect? Perfect? What does that word even mean?

My body is not a temple because even temples crumble when the earth shakes, my body is the tree whose roots go so deep in the ground that no amount of rain or storm can deracinate it.

My body is not the deep blue sea just like the pictures always portray. No, my body is the ocean’s wrath. Strong, powerful and determined to tear apart every mountain that stands in my way.

My body is not the soothing drizzle that lets you walk on the side of the road. It is the thunder and the storm that churns your insides and doesn’t let you step outside.

My body is not the zephyr that you stand and feel on your face and in your hair, it’s the tornado that will blow away your entire existence and wouldn’t care to look back.

My body is not just the com-mixture of flesh and bones, my existence comes from the explosion of stars. So, when the time comes I shall explode to form another.

I lie here and ask myself, if my body is all of these things, does it still need to be perfect?

No, because my body is not perfect and will never be, for it shall be what it always have been, explosive.

Muse: Nimisha Verma

My Body, Part 1

My body has been an empty canvas for as long as i can remember, with sunlight painting its words on it as i remove the shreds of sanity and tenderness, with the light accentuating my scars and revealing the tales of my victory in this battle with myself. This body has always been a barren land until you came and planted your seeds in the soil of my heart, whose roots go deep within my soul. Your fingers that ran down my neck and back left an intersection there that I am still afraid to cross. Your gleaming eyes when looked at my body from afar I could feel a thousand lighting bolts hitting me.

I am not an empty canvas anymore, for I have your words written on my skin like Braille, wanting to be touched and read. I have your claw marks on me from holding me on for a bit too long. I have you running in my veins and your pictures painted on me like the pictures painted on the walls of the caves that tell a different story to different travelers.

I am not an empty canvas anymore. I am an artifact that you preserve.

Muse: Nimisha Verma

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