Monday, February 20, 2017

Gratitude in Interlude

I used to watch people.

I used to watch married couples. Their smiles, 
the small touches, the gestures, 
secret kisses, unique embraces 
The way they looked at each other. 

I watched close friends, their practised banter
inside jokes and interchangeable speech. 
What’s it like knowing someone as you come to know yourself?
Is it a blessing or curse? (I wonder)

And observing family, a part of me
so damn proud, watching them 
fly higher and higher
and I tell everyone with pride, of their stories.

I felt endless wanting, I craved. 
All those things.

an example of love, my godfather
with a romance like forest fire, 
ever changing, never dying 
there’s sure to be heat, burn, smoke- yet it never EVER 
overshadows the lights, the brilliance, the youth.

Friends… His three companions.
(Let’s examine, shall we?) 
Friend One's never-ending support, his heart of gold. 
Friend Two's gentle sternness, her soft kindness,
and Three's generosity, and selflessness

(Between the small moments 
were big ones. Shared tears 
and secrets and 
shoulders to 
lean on)

And finally, my mother.
Her hair wild, eyes alive and black scars of liberation, 
Yet she is serene, patient- the eye of the storm that tries to control her. 
My highest, most ambitious aspiration. 
(Did you know I was born from greatness?)

I suppose what I’m getting at is that
there is so much love in the world
and so many different kinds. 
and somewhere along all my covetous searching 
Everything I yearned for fell into my lap.  

Friendships that move me to tears of joy,
Family that are ready to catch me when I am sure
to stumble and fall, over and over. 
And a Love that burns like fire, hot and lingering. 

Escaping like paper cranes 
in midnight musings out the
windows of my mind, wings beat against my eyelashes.
Gratitude in interludes.

Thursday, December 15, 2016

Thanksgiving 2016

Driving out over the highway, 
where the roads are long and broad and 

I wanted them to go on forever, 
simultaneously, the thought of walking
someplace entirely new, getting lost with you

lights speckling doorways and window awnings 
neon signs that flicker over empty store ways 

An entire town, deserted 

A giant trampoline, soft wicker chairs,
curtains blowing softly and carpets to sink into

The faintest hum of families and the smell of thanksgiving 
Hot HOT chocolate with too much whipped cream and 
burning our tongues 

Black sweaters and tan bedspreads and breath... 

(He’s got a secret mole over his right eyelid and 
a not so secret one on his right cheekbone)

Autumn colours that bleed into blackwood and yellow grass 

car rides and eyelids half closed, trees that fly by
and the smell of cotton and fall and everything else.

Wooden floors are cold and your legs are warm 
So let’s curl into each other until 
our bodies are as contrastingly puzzled as 
our minds are not.  

And it’s enough, it’s more, it’s the closest thing i’ve ever felt

To complete, spectacular… something.  

Monday, November 14, 2016

October 17, 2016

Central Park was in the bloom of Autumn.
it was very chilly, but not cold.
Maybe because the sun was out.

Possibly because I was holding your hand. 

You didn't like the noise. Or the crowds.
I could see the energy stealing yours.
I was afraid to touch you.

You grasped my fingers and didn't let go. 

Photographs are important to me.
Maybe it’s because I stopped taking them two years ago.
I wish I hadn’t. I want to remember everything.

I wanted to immortalize the way you looked at me. 

Anyway, we were taking photographs.
You smiled for them all, and I held you around the waist.
You pulled me against your body- pressed me to your chest.

All of a sudden, the city smells like you.  

You're one of my most favorite places in the world.
Up there with hill stations and rainy summer days.
I don’t have a name for your scent- it’s just. Yours.

You don’t smell like things. They smell like you. 

I lost you for a few seconds. And felt panic.
Then the crowd parted and there you were.
Sitting with your head between your legs.

You could tell I was worried. It made you happy, I think. 

The fountain was beautiful. And people wish on beautiful things.
We sacrificed coins, and you made a little boy's day.
I saw him showing his baby sibling the shiny penny you threw his way.

I remember grinning so wide my cheeks hurt. I remember you watching me. Smiling. 

And then more photographs. With everyone I hold so dear.
And I tried very hard to concentrate, because
your arms were wound tight around my waist.

Your chin was resting on my shoulder. I could feel eyelashes against my cheek.

Walking is something I’ve done a lot of with you.
But you very rarely clasp my hand as tightly as you did then.
The walk back to Penn was long and loud and you held on the whole way.

 Walking with you is never, never a pain. 

You let go once. The crowd was thick.
You found me in an instant and resumed your hold.
I asked if you missed me. You said you did. Desperately.

Walking with you is always, always a pleasure. 

Crossing the roads was my favorite.
Every time we stopped, you put your arm around me.
The lights change so fast. You grab my hand again,

And we run across, laughing, and I feel like I may cry. 

At Rockefeller center, the ice sounds sharp and the flags are beautiful.
There are lights all around- strange, multicolored lights.
They reflect off your skin, and I’m left staring.

A hundred colors reflected off your skin, and in that moment they were ALL my favorite.



We finally get on the train, and everyone is half-asleep.
I feel drunk, on fun and laughter and hand-holding.
The train starts to move, and your shoulder looks so welcoming.

The me that swore to stay awake is quickly fast asleep, and you make sure I don’t fall. 

I am awakened by jostling and bustling,
people standing up, and the cold breeze from outside.
You’re whispering in my ear, giving my hands a gentle squeeze.

I thought I’d like to wake up to your voice every day if I could. 

looking over at you, one could tell you were tired. So I ask questions.
‘What do you want to do when we get back?’
‘I just want to be alone with you.’

I thread our fingers together. ‘Okay.’ 

We got ten minutes alone before everyone else arrived.
Ten minutes alone after a full day surrounded by strangers
and friends, in perfect, temporary silence.

You hugged me tight and I felt a soft sigh escape from one of us. 

‘I just wanted to be alone with you.’
My fingers tightened. I held on to you, not for dear life, but because
I wanted you as close as you could get.

I wanted to pull you against me until it hurt. 

And you pull back and look into my eyes.
And I think I may cry again.
Because I’ve never been looked at the way you look at me.

Because I never realized how important looking into your eyes was, until you looked into mine. 

Monday, November 7, 2016


His chortle is ice, his touch a frost. 
My arms pinned back in claws, he teases me- mirthless,
Hissing sweet nothings in my ear- 
“You’re useless, unloved. Tainted…
“You will never mean something to someone.”
I’m cold, but numbness won’t arrive to relieve me- each whisper a raw stab.
He makes me think I deserve it, his weight crushing as he leans over me. 

Life is heavy. 

He’ll give me beautiful creations, encase me in warmth, and
pull the floor away from under me. 

He’ll condemn me, abuse me, smile at me tomorrow. 
Everything is fine. 

He’ll hold my hand, kiss my forehead and he’ll feel soft, glowing. 
His smile will melt away like candle wax, dripping over my body, and 
His nails will harden into knives. 

I’ll ask him why he introduced himself to me, if only to torture my heart. 
He’ll cup my chin in his frozen fingers and smile against my lips. 

“Because you are my plaything. 
I will toy with you, love you, rip you apart and 
threaten to destroy you.”

He’ll look at me with eyes full of galaxies, and 
I’ll see black holes, threatening to consume me. 

“But only you can decide when you’re broken.” 


His breath is silken over my skin, his touch an eternal promise. 
He knows games too, but he’ll make me tempted to play along. 
He is the most familiar stranger I have ever known, and he’s as
light as a thought crossing the corner of my mind. 

Death flirts with me sometimes. 

While Life throws me against the walls of sanity, threatening to break them down, 
Death eases into my room, and leaves the door open. 
Life takes away the pillars that have held me up, and I crumble-
Death offers me his hand, and winks. 

“Come with me, and you will never be hurt again.” His voice is a memory, like
nursery rhymes crooned into a body still growing accustomed 
to a soul far older than its vessel. 

And I’ll ask him how I am meant to grow, without pain. He’ll laugh, and 
I’ll hear more than one voice in the echoes of his endless body. 
“Growth is unnecessary, for the dead stay young forever."


“You will be the worst decision someone will ever make.” 
Life will say, just to spite me. 
I am his plaything, and he throws his javelin. 
“It’s such a burden to bear. Why not dance with Death awhile?’ 
He’ll ask, innocent, wide eyed. 

Death stands there in the corner of my room, staring at me. 
His hand still outstretched, the door still open. 
What would happen if I closed it, and locked us in? 
Would I feel safer? Or more threatened than ever?

I’ve alway been the most dangerous thing to happen to myself. 

I regard Death, his stolid build, his soft-looking hands, lean fingers. 
I would like to hold hands with Death, just to make Life jealous.
But Life is so vibrant, his demeanour mysterious and unpredictable, 
his open arms offering me a million possibilities, 
while Death offers me a single infinity.  

They really are beautiful. 

If I am doomed to be someone’s worst decision, then
I’m also fated to be someone’s best.  

I regard Life with a grin so wide my cheeks hurt- put my fists up. 
He raises an eyebrow, and Death smiles. 
I throw my arm forward, and strike Life in the face; he stumbles, shocked. 
And he laughs. 

I’ve decided to stay with him awhile. 

Because I’ve grown to love the feeling of butterscotch sunlight through chill windows and
high pitched bells of laughter that catches in throats, heads thrown back, eyes squeezed shut.
Surprise bursts of wind and crashing ocean waves remind me how Alive the world is, 
how Alive I am.  


Only the dead stay young forever.
Only the dead stay young forever, but 
I’m young now, and I’m still alive. 

I’d like to grow old with Life. 
We’ll bicker and laugh, 
hold each other close and do our best
to kill each other. 

His touch is cold but it burns me
and I use the fire to fuel my determination. 
He wants me to drop into the holes he’s dug around me-
I won’t let him see me fall. 

I still think about holding hands with Death sometimes- 
he had beautiful hands. 


Life's knives tore away at my flesh until the dense redness blurred my vision
and I saw a warped version of reality. 
He led me down various paths and showed me horrors that
forced me to put my fists up, and fight. He laughs. 
“You look stronger.” He’ll say. 

Every blow he dealt me made my bones harder,
every scar he has left on my skin a reminder I am 
chipped, torn, weathered and damaged, 
but I am far from broken. 

Life has eyes full of galaxies, and
I see black holes. But I also see
shooting stars, nebulas and a universe, 

Thursday, October 8, 2015

This Dance

Fluid I move,
fingertips cold, 
raise arms and flow,
move energies with force 
that imperfection
like art, 
does not explode but
slowly dissolves and ingrates with 
the core of your being. 
dance with me 
and we’ll talk awhile,
about magic and spirits and silly things.
spin me around
round and round
till the room revolves around us together, 
the lights blend as one and we
shine brighter than them all

Fluid, like 
water underwater,
ballads of tragedies and ribbons 
winding into each other
Dance with me 
Stay awhile 
it’s all rather boring and my feet are starting to ache but
you look ethereal in this light 
we’re creating
like leaves pulled free of stems and 
dancing through the air, 
musical notes in the wind.

Play me a melody
I’ll dance like the
autumn leaves 
showering the world in colours as 
temporarily beautiful as I.
Bubbles within water
within deep underwater caves
still for eternities, 
have lasted longer than I,
and vanished.
Will I dissapear as well? 
Dance with me, and whisper in my ear
about fading leaves and eternal bubbles
and silly things, and 
we’ll laugh.

A thought wandered by earlier
It got lost on the way and 
I forgot to bring it back
Does it call out to me?
All I hear is this music, like a heartbeat
I am unable to live without. 
Lifelines and ribbons 
I close my eyes and see dancing stars
does that make us stars, too? 
burning away together
bright orange embers that dance 
settled into temporary existence. 

Like the leaves and
bubbles and
burning embers
dance with me 
just for a little while 
inside this soft melody that
holds me in an embrace. And then 
we’ll burn away 
and surrounded by stars we’ll finally 

Saturday, February 14, 2015

Sandy Hook, 2012

A/N: So back in 2012, I wasn't very familiar with current events and the like. So, I was oblivious during the time of the Newtown Sandy Hook shooting. Recently (VERY recently) I happened across a video that covered the whole story. After a little extra research of my own, it was safe to say I was quite mentally disturbed. So, I did what any writer would do. I wrote. I would just like to say that the following is pretty depressing, and quite dark, however, so was the shooting. Finally I will also add that every single line, including dialogue, actually took place. I did the research. 
Sandy Hook, 2012

20 children, 6 adults
woke up one morning perfectly fine
kissed their loved ones goodbye and departed
to school, yet also forever. 

One man in his family home
strikes his mother’s head with bullets three
his body starved of hunger and emotion as
he takes his guns and he drives.

Little children, barely lived
spanning ages six to seven,
went into their first grade classrooms
greeting teachers and reciting the pledge of allegiance.  

Thuds are heard outside
the glass panes shatter and hammering
of bullets calls everyone to attention as
the barricades begin. 911-911-911……

Children are ushered with their teachers into
bathrooms, libraries and storage units.
'silent, stay silent, don’t make a sound,
we’re all going to be alright'- innocent lies.

His shadow approaching as he forces his way through 
the door hiding fifteen young souls and a substitute teacher
not meant to be present. Fingers danced over trigger
and bodies are riddled with foreign metal.

Light forever extinguished from children’s eyes
woman victim of circumstance
bodies lying cold and rotting on the floor, staring emptily
as a little red river begins. One Lone Survivor plays dead.

In another classroom all can be heard as
Children are hiding under desks (too futile).
As he rushes in to attack 
maniacal firing begins anew.

Little girl hiding in the closet hears her friend cry out
‘Help me! I don’t want to be here!’ the angry man's voice replies
‘Well you’re here.’ and hammering sounds continue.
That six year old child knew his fate, how cruel could that be? 

Finally after The Man fells the grand total
of 20 children and 6 adults
he places a gun to his head with closed eyes
and a final shot is rung. 

Badges and authority enter but now
for what use are they to the children
who’s lives can never be returned,
and don’t get me started on the parents. 

Lone Survivor is taken to safety
her body coated in different bloods. 
She rushes to her mother’s embrace eyes wide and states blandly-
‘Mommy, I’m okay but all my friends are dead.’ 

All her friends are dead. 
And even a six year old knows 
what the United States Government refuses
to see, and when is it all going to stop? 

December 14, 2012- the Sandy Hook MASSACRE
20 children and 6 adults shot dead
varying from ages 6- 56 of age
74 more school shootings since then in the US alone. 

What more must I say to you? 

Friday, January 16, 2015

A Reign of Fire (A Rain of Fire)

(Author's note- This poem may be hard to understand and I advise everyone to read the explanation in the ending after reading the poem once, and then rereading the poem a second time for deeper understanding)

A silent night, peaceful and pleasant, 
interrupted by a fiery rain that
rips through the land like a thief, 
taking what if wants.
And now everything is alight,
with a burning fire so sinister it
chills to the bone.

I wake up to screaming,
my mother grabbing me frantically.
Only four, I am confused.
So many lights… is this a celebration? 
The wetness on my mama’s face looks strange,
and the smell of the red pain she wears burns my nose.
Outside it is bright, and so hot for a winter’s night.
Everyone is running round, most wear red paint like Mama. 
Fireworks are in the air, landing closer than usual. 
There are strange Green Men, holding
black contraptions that also give off fireworks.
Sometimes one would hit a friend, or a neighbour and
they would fall, pretending to sleep, red paint magically
appearing from under their still bodies. 
What kind of game is this? I wonder,
my eyes darting around, eager to join.

Why won’t mamma stop screaming?
Why does the air smell painful?
Why does it hurt when I breathe?

Suddenly mamma takes me to a dark corner,
and lays me down.
‘Child listen to me,’ She says, and
something in her voice seizes my attention. 
‘Let’s play a game, ok?’
‘You close your eyes and count to fifty, and 
mamma will hold you close.’
‘This is a weird game, mamma.’
'Will you do it for me?’
‘Of course I will!’
I close my eyes, and feel mama’s warm arms
wrap around my little body. 

Mama begins shaking
water and red paint hit the floor in strange, uneven splatters.
There is a loud noise and mama cries out.
The darkness in my eyelids turns bright orange,
the light outside must be white hot.

My Child counts the numbers
learnt in the village school
disciplined and innocent,
unaware our lives teeter dangerously on this
monstrous cliff of blood and metal.
We play our game as the Green Men play theirs.
The blood on my body and the tears in my eyes fall
like my brothers and sisters have tonight,
and like them, there is no way to get it back,
it is gone, gone forever. 
I pull my baby close.
An explosion sounds above us.
I bury my face in my angel’s hair. 

My child never gets to finish. 

- Diya
Recently, my family and I went to Vietnam. It was beautiful, but tragic too, as I saw photos in war memorials that personally will affect me forever. The brutality of war was something so tragic and intricate I was immediately inspired with a strange concept. The Point Of View (POV) in this poem is split three ways-

One goes to no one in particular, as it is a description of the scene at hand.

After that we see a small child (who's gender I didn't want to specify to add to the illusion and mystery) who has woken up, obviously confused and excited. This child's POV is a little weird, and will take maybe several readings to fully decipher and understand.

Finally we see the mother, who knows exactly what's happening, but has obviously not clued the child in. She is protective, injured, probably poisoned and on the cusp of death. The poem finishes off with the same abrupt, unsatisfying and instant effect we often feel in real life. 

Hope you guys liked it, and after reading this titbit will read it again with more understanding. If you like it please share and follow, thanks (: