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Shuvangi Khadka May 2015
Sometimes I don’t think myself
As a poet, but a scribbler,
Because behind every single piece of
My work, there are hundreds scrawled pages
Glasses of red wine left untouched and candles
I have lit again and again, fighting with
The Lord of darkness, because you have to write
That verse again and again, until you’re satisfied,
Until you’re proud to call yourself its creator,
But poetry isn't just penning thoughts running
In your veins, oozing as soft whispers from your lips,
It resides underneath like a constant heartbeat and
It does not stop until you get that one poem,
Until you pen down the feeling you were trying
Feverishly to put into words and when you
Finally do, the beat stops just for a moment
Enough for you to give that glint of pride,
And then the beat starts again with your fingers,
Yearning once more, to create another masterpiece,
Because poetry is not a phase, not a mere hobby,
Not a way of passing time, but it is a norm, a habit
A tradition that you follow so religiously because
You believe in it, for you can actually feel the poem
When it sits with you in a room.
  May 2015 Shuvangi Khadka
mel
lately it's been a mix of cold hellos and trying to drown out the unnerving voices inside my head telling me it's the perfect day to ******* and die. mostly, it's the latter. my teacher taught me that every 10 years our skeletal system regenerates itself and we, in the literal sense, become new people again. it's been eleven since you left and i still can't get the scent of you off my skin. how long does it take for a person to forget someone who made them feel like the neon lights that led to home? the answer is twenty bottles of ***** and a stranger's body to kiss, maybe even to hold afterwards. breakup ***, makeup ***, **** me til i pass out ***, it doesn't even feel the same without you ***, just come back i miss you so much i don't know who this person is please come back ***. my hands are weak and my body is shaking as if the tremors that quaked california five days ago were suddenly reincarnating as the sobs in my head. twenty bottles, eleven years, i'm still counting, still counting, still counting, still counting. i don't know what i'm waiting for.
Your poetry is like
Stockholm Syndrome,
I'll follow you 'til I die...
  Apr 2015 Shuvangi Khadka
OliviaAutumn
She sat beside me in a cloud of smoke,
Ash falling to my knees like a tree that just gave up on standing straight
And finally lay its head on the ground.
I am tired of feeling rooted in an earth I no longer believe in;
Tired of climbing trees to defy gravity and I know I can't win.
Not this fight, nor the next, or even a game of poker as my lips
Just can't stand being straight.

I am that fallen tree and sometimes I forget to breathe,
Leaving each breath like my car keys you tell me I don't need.
Who needs the earth when I have you landscaped before me?
These foundations are ours and you build me these walls
Just so I can knock them down.

I'm destructive like that, we are indestructible like that
So lets take a page from my book and draw ourselves a map
Right to this moment in time,
Where I whisper *"I've fallen for the girl, and you know what?
It's fine."
There once was a girl
Whose laugh
Indelible
Brightens up
The whole room

There once was a girl
Always seemingly
Detached
Larger than life
They say

There once was girl
Even on the days
She does not
Smile
Beautiful, they say

There once was a girl
Who goes for weeks
Sometimes
Without speaking
Tired, she says

There once was a girl
In class staring out
The window
I don’t know her
I don’t know her
dedicated to the girl who's not okay, but that's okay
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