The Past

 

I layer many memories, neatly stored
At the bottom of my heart,
Pushing them down, away from sight,
So they don't tear me apart.

So that they don't climb up its walls,
And envenom my blood,
So that they don't keep pounding,
Or become a raging flood.

Most days, they are merciful
Like the grass beneath my feet,
Not hurting, but gently pricking,
With every heartbeat.

And yet I would not bury them,
But rather, choose to embalm,
Until the day I can finally
Find my peace and calm.

For these are what make us human
Our mistakes, and all the past,
And these are what make me a poet,
And make my verses last.

                                                                                                                       Niharika Prasad

My Love

 

​When they speak of love, I think of you.

They don’t believe me—they think I go to the coast

To meet a person, to find a hand to hold.

They stand with their backs to you,

Clicking pictures with you as a background.

But to me, you are not the background.

You are my muse.

​I have loved you since I was a child.

You and I are the same:

Wild, shifting, restless.

We cannot stay still.

They ask, "How can you love something that isn't alive?"

But to me, you are more alive than anything.

​You never bore me.

In the rosy morning, you are calm and quiet.

Under the moonlight, you are fierce and wild.

Sometimes you touch me with a soft caress,

Other times you challenge me with your mighty waves.

This push and pull—is what keeps our love fresh.

​They think you are just a metaphor in my poems.

How do I explain that I really love you?

Drag me into your depths until I forget the world.

And when I am gone, let my ashes be thrown into your water.

So that I may finally, truly, be free.