Monday, October 1, 2018




Those bony and scrawny fingertips
scrubbing and scouring every
single piece
of dust and soot
nestled between my toes
and puny soles
imbues me with the
moonlight sheen
and the milky smell I was born with

You slowly and surely scrub my
anger, pain and hurt away
to let in dissolve
in that turbid water
when the plethora of emotions
are birthing every second in your mind
as you fervently look for the
small scratches,
you might have overlooked

As gently as the seraphic touch
on my nimble body
which you have sculpted and nourished
every bit of it
you dissolve every pain
in the small bowl
you wash me in

For every other soul
it is a mundane task
for me,
when you touch me
with your fecund fingertips
it baptizes me and
renders my soul pure

Your touch,
my mother,
renders me pure.
(First Published in Visual Verse Vol 5)


How the feeling of emptiness devours
and takes me in
like an empty nest
and a hole in the ground
an empty den of the fox
with just loneliness gazing around
an unclaimed body
lying in the morgue..sleeping
without the
rush to being claimed or otherwise
Oh! how the  emptiness seeps and seeks me
with the stories of yore
with phantom pain filling my pores
An old abandoned hut
covered with vines and creeps
in the middle of the farmland
waiting to be lived in
a beautiful nursery with
matching color crib and that mobile
tinkling to the sound of desertion
and those
patterned unused blankets
folded and tucked neatly
left in the pile
in the corner
to be donated
so it can be forgotten
Bearing a load of a heavy heart
a heart empty
scraped and scratched of any emotion
not good for any more use
No sun
No sunlight
and the shadows  are empty
with nobody behind
A close look at my palms and
those lines have left me.
Oh! how the feeling of emptiness
fills and devours
everything in me.
(First Published in Modern Literature)


I’m an aberration,
An anomaly,
A certain twist in the tale
How do you feel when you masks peel off in layers?
and every time you shred your pain and misery
You see more layers forming underneath
Like the layers of the onion
Like the countess scab you have
been picking
/but it seems useless/
Like the constant poking of the needle
can’t seem to find the splinter lodged
deep seeded in your soul
The candle in your room is weeping
with both ends burning
And you are trying to reach the end of this abyss
When your spindly legs
Are those of the moth
Trapped in the spider’s web
And somewhere someone is tightening the grip on you
Can you feel it by the absence of every
wheezing breath?
That moth is you.
(First Published in Literary Yard)


MEGHA SOOD lives in Jersey City, New Jersey. She is also a contributing author at GoDogGO Cafe, Candles Online, FVR Publishing, Whisper and the Roar and Poets Corner.Her works have been featured in GoDogGoCafe, Whisper and the Roar, Duane Poetree, Visual Verse, Vita Brevis, Poets Corner, Modern poetry, Spillwords Press, Indian periodicals, Literary heist, Little Rose Magazine, The Quiet Corner, Writer's Cafe Magazine, and coming up in Modern Literature, KOAN(Paragon Press), Dime Show review and many more. She recently won the 1st prize in NAMI NJ Dara Axelrod Mental Health Poetry contest. She blogs at


  1. Thanks so much for featuring and supporting my work and works of other talents in the literary world.

  2. It's always a pleasure reading your poetry. Your last poem moved my soul to ponder. Thank you, Megha. Blessings.

  3. Such beautiful creation. Each poem was a treat to read