to bring back time
is my only dream in this crazy world
to separate the simple pieces
of my odd castle
to attach them with hopes
obliterate the blemishes
i miss a ray of light
and petals appear
- memories are here

When melancholy besets
And memories strike
When roses lost in books
Turn into silver spikes

When you hear the sobbing sounds
From the walls of your room
And the world around you
Feels like a perpetual doom

When you feel that you’re trapped
And that you’re a lost cause
When people close to you
Laugh at your blemish and flaws

When you can not see a way
And all your hope disappears
I want you to read this poem
And know that someone cares

She is made up of scars,
Hidden with the skin of elegance,
She is a captive,
To others' perception of her own fallacies.
She is made up of bruises,
Knitted with the yarn of invasion,
Her eyes reflect the burning agony,
She is the flowing torrent.
She is made up of blemishes,
Concealed with layers of optimism,
She is made up of bewitching beauty;
A crude exposure.
She is an enticing amalgamation of-
Rain and blizzard,
Oceans and waterfalls,
Breeze and vacuum,
She is a world of paradoxes,
Sealed with an air of rigidity.

- Kavya Mukhija

How can it be
that you can have everything
and still want more?
Am I greedy when I ask
"is there anything else?"

How can it be
that the ties of friendship
can be undone?
Are they not elastic?
Aren't they impervious
to the ever-shifting sands of time
that weather meeker men
down to disassociated
piles of dust?

How can it be
that you can plant roots
that spread and intertwine themselves,
seemingly immune to any upward motion,
just to pluck them from the ground
that nurtured them for years
and place them somewhere
unlike anything they've ever known?

How can it be
that the world can hold so many secrets
and yet our instincts tell us
to discover the truth?
No secret was ever discovered
by trusting a single source;
like the threads of a dream-catcher,
we entangle ourselves in multiple realms
to capture what we seek.

I don't know which face means more:
the smiling ones
that coax me into song, and folly,
and memories as precious as time,
or the one blemished with melancholy
as it stares back at me
knowing there's so much more.

How can it be
that we have an imagination
as wide as the universe,
and yet we never dare
to find the borders?

I like the dark. My scars are hidden and the stars don't judge my flaws.

The blemishes and scars so easily viewed on her broken city are beautiful in the dark.

Sometimes I use
Concealer
As foundation
Because my entire face
Is a blemish
I am desperately trying
To cover up

We are faults; we are despairing flaws that blemish the surface of our revolving sphere with the intent of making reparations.
We collapse entire cores of foundations and tear down freshly plastered walls with family portraits and decorative ceramic angels hanging from stainless steel nails.
We destroy entire civilizations, coating citizens in molten lava from a volcano that never overlooked them in the first place, leaving future lovers stepping over their remains unknowingly and blissfully clueless.
We are natural disasters; we tear through corn fields, bring down windmills, and rip shingles off of roofs while toddlers sleep soundly under quilted blankets.
But moonlight shoots through your veins and sun burns from the crevice of your chest and I can't help but cup it in my hands and put it in my coat pocket for safe keeping