The Silence of My Voice

Hello. It's Day Thirteen! I know this and the next one is coming up a couple days late, but I've been slogging just a wee bit more than usual, so pardon me. So I'm going to keep this one rather simple and jot down some of my favourite things I worded and are still date so very close to my heart. Just how a barista demands for the milk,   To dance its way into the coffee's life,   You inked me with all the times, you,   Morphed beautifully when autumns touched you, For when will the world comprehend, Each of them rocks formed ludicrously, was only, Creek trying to break his way through the mountains' many hearts, The many hearts she granted to be broken, For someone could fathom, The beauty of breaking hearts, and letting their, Own Creek through, The moss of the lamps reminded him of the unripeness of the bedroom doors he squirrelled behind, each night, when the clock struck ten, and his old man in turn struck any visible hide he...

When I started writing this evening, it'd been a simple enough fictional poem. Bu when I saw the Nirbhaya documentary, I changed my course. Here's  what I wrote on Medium. Please do see the documentary before the Indian government acts like a douchebag, and bans it. For those unable to open or access the link, following is what I wrote: Hi. I’m a daughter, a sister, a friend, a cousin. A woman. I AM A PERSON. I’m an Indian. And I’m not proud of my country. I belong to a family that’s liberal. A family that is open-minded. A family who was proud to have their first born child, a girl. A family that doesn’t assume the limits on my clothing. A family that doesn’t bar me from partying late in the night. A family that has every means to keep me safe and protected. A family that loves me. And I thank divine providence every single day of my life. I’m not like the little girls born in poor families who judge them down to be a mortifying curse. Or the families who are o...