Poetry

I don't believe in psychics, but I believe in fortune cookies. 
It's not as if I particularly like the taste-- 
But it feels special somehow. 

Twelve years, eleven months, and twenty seven days.

She only had twelve years, eleven months, and twenty seven days:

Of running through life wearing rose colored glasses glued to her face, 

it's almost night on the Tyrrhenian Sea 

homes glow like stars on the cliffside 

and waves of green lap against the side of the boat 

there is a storm approaching, 

I have a note for you,

But I didn't want to say it to everyone,

With everyone there.

I really wish we danced, 

I know we had fun at the dance,

12 to 16, 

I won,

We played for no reason,

It slips out of my mouth easily.

Pushes past my lips with little protest

And I almost forget the weight the words carry.

Easy as they go,

It’s hard to remember that

It

Hurts

Burn them all:
The black, the white
The left, the right

Yes, burn them all!
They're bad for our country:
The immigrants, the government
They're bad for us, trust me.

January: January can start with mud or snow but it always feels like a fresh start. like a start to the end it feels like a waterfall picking up the river where the other one ends.

I opened the door to put up the Easter gel clings, 

and was greeted by my childhood.

Children were playing outside, running

across the lawns on the bright

spring evening.

I'm Kashmiri. 

I understand the language but don't speak it 
Which sometimes makes me feel like a fraud. 

I never paid attention when I went to Jewish school, and I never once sat through services 

And yet I know the sound, like a heartbeat in grey 

The sting of hate, countless lives lost: death.

It is true; we have forgotten parlous strife!

Endowed with life, eager to neglect.

In a beautiful bundle

Of fresh red roses,

Does anyone notice

The one that is withering?

In a perfect sky

Full of bright, twinkling stars,