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 glow,
afraid of the judgment the world might bestow.

The world carved her doubts like a chisel through stone,
taught her to question the glow that’s her own.
So she wears a mask stitched with ribbons of fear,
while the ones who see clearly stand quiet, yet near.

She hunts for her joy in the glitter of things,
forgetting the fountain her own spirit brings.
She dreams of a love that will never decay,
though people are seasons—they wither, they stay.

She means well, though often her meaning is crossed;
she loves far too blindly; she measures what she’s lost.
Her heart is not wicked, not hollow, not flawed,
just tired of the battles with life and with God.

If only she’d pause, let her own cup be filled,
she’d learn she is worthy, unbroken, still willed.
The world may be cruel, yet she will remain,
a flame that keeps burning through sorrow and rain.

- Neha Sharma

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 schemes,
who blur into strangers, who vanish in dreams.

I envy the roofs that don’t learn to depart,
their bricks guard the stories I trade from my heart.
Their clocks tick in rhythms I’ll never obey,
while my hours get swallowed by miles of delay.

Yet part of me smiles at the trick of it all,
to envy a lamplight, a silhouette, a wall.
Perhaps we are meant to be briefly unmoored,
so the stillness of others feels doubly assured.

For what is a journey but proof we exist,
a shadow in motion, a name on a list?
And maybe the home I keep chasing in view,
is less in the houses, and more in me too.

- Neha Sharma

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

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 concealed.

The dreams they abandoned, the ones they keep, 
the nights they were broken, the nights without sleep.

The child they were, the battles they fought,
the pieces of wisdom their living has taught.

You hold close the traces of all they’ve been,
every version they bring and every shadow within.

So when you say, I love you with a voice soft as dew,
the past and the present arrive with them, too.

- Neha Sharma

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

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

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

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

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

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 curious glance.

No story was banished, no tale was denied,
I walked into pages the way rivers collide.

I never knew hunger, I never knew lack,
for stories would sprout like green blades at my back.

- Neha Sharma