She is fire in silence, a storm in porcelain;she shields those she loves, though her guard lets wolves in.She carries their burdens, she bleeds when they fall,she gathers her sorrows and cradles them all.She trusts the mirages that shimmer, then fade;she misses the kind faces that never betrayed.Her lantern burns steady, yet she covers its Continue reading

The train is the one in a hurry tonight,the houses stay rooted, politely upright.Each window is a frame of a halted little play,a kitchen, a curtain, a child with her clay.They say it’s the world that rushes on by,but the world never moves, it just watches the sky.It’s us with our luggage of deadlines and Continue reading

There once was a crowd chanting “Same!”where safety had smothered the flame;The braver reply was a small, honest “why,”And not trading yourself for acclaim.- Neha Sharma Continue reading

To love is to gather the things left unsaid,the grief they buried, the tears they bled.The laughter they hid in the quietest room,small joys that still blossom against their gloom.The storms in their family that contoured their night,the knots they untangle before dawn’s light.You inherit the lessons their failures revealed,scars they shouldered, the weight they Continue reading

A boy at the bus stop held tight,his father’s hand all through the night.I lowered my eyes,but memory reminds;I once held a hand just as right.- Neha Sharma Continue reading

I left the book open last night,the lamp gave up before I could write.The page still waits there,with my pen in the air;some stories refuse to ignite.- Neha Sharma Continue reading

I bought some mangoes today,one sweet, one sour in its way.I ate them alone,but somehow was shown,your laughter still spills into May.- Neha Sharma Continue reading

The fan kept circling slow,as if it had nowhere to go.Round after round,just carrying sound,I think it knows something I don’t know.- Neha Sharma Continue reading

The lift doors closed on their own,I stood there, quietly alone.It rose, then came back,its patience intact;the kind I have never been shown.- Neha Sharma Continue reading

My mother stacked books till the ceiling grew tall,a forest of paper that swallowed the wall.Some conversed of kingdoms, some thundered of wars,others spoke gently through half-hidden drawers.Some stories were riddles, some heavy as stone,some laughed with a child, some grieved all alone.Hope didn’t live in fate or in chance,but in books that awaited my Continue reading