Poetry: Nysa Chaturvedi

Nysa Chaturvedi

Nysa Chaturvedi is a 15-year-old high-schooler trying to survive the academic circus—with homework in one hand and a sketchbook in the other. Occasionally spotted stress-eating chocolate or pretending to understand algebra, she’s a self-proclaimed artist with a soft spot for poetry.

 When she’s not buried in textbooks or dodging deadlines, you’ll find her doodling in the margins of her notebook, daydreaming about parallel universes, or dramatically staring out the window like the main character she knows she is. She doesn’t claim to have life figured out—but give her a pen, and she’ll write her way through it.

 She lives in Jaipur, Rajasthan (India).

The Words that I Hated

My words lashed out on a blood stained page. 

I screamed and yelled as I stood, blinded by frustration.

 My heart heavy, 

consumed by self-predation.

“I’m sorry,” I said, tears in my eyes. But the damage was done, and it came as no surprise. 

I hated the words that parted my lips, A hurricane, a “cruel” tempest, a masterpiece of possession.

Regret gnawed at me, not new, a relentless craving to gain.

I couldn’t swallow the guilt, couldn’t break the chain. 

Shouted and ignored, blinded by my own pain. 

Yet you chose the path of utter silence and all my love seemed to go and vain.

You used to stand by me, untouchable,

A ray of hope, in a world gone wrong

Your eyes were gentle, your touch so kind, but your smile never quite reached your eyes.

Yet I remained blind, and you, a prisoner of my mind.

But now I see it with clarity, 

The depth of your love, the emotions on your face.

And though my words were never once full of hate,

I now say, “I love you so”, before it’s too late.

I love you, with all of my heart, 

I can’t help but wonder if I’ll make yours start.

I can’t help but wonder if we were meant to be.

Maybe I was the right person at the wrong time.

Forgive me, ma Cherie, as my words stain the page,

Blood dripping, heart gripping, maybe we were never meant to be.

But you, you were supposed to be mine,

So, how could you let yourself be stolen away by time?

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Setu, July 2025