Shiv has been writing poetry since she was in elementary school. At the end of her junior year of high school, she became a published writer
Staring at My Wall, Endlessly.
late nights chatting under sunsets
asking what is forgiveness?
daydreams they seem endless,
where my hands no longer sweat
and we can both so thank you.
I’m was lost in your shadow
bending to stay in between the lines
dancing in the shade
I’ll leave my hair down by my shoulders
paint me black
My mind flies
But tries to come back to yours U
And I miss myself the most
goodbye to shade I through myself under
greetings to the cries of ease,
because now I know
forgiveness means to take ownership
of the chains that choked me
granting them freedom from my haste
Cleaning my bruises saying it's okay to myself--my mind
let go, let go, let go
let us answer.
Remember the Time When
can’t you see
i'm the one who could never speak
i just wanted to be let free
our down the river just like leaves
pressing play changes the world
one step one beat closer to you.
My Teenage Brain Dump
When I’m doing the dishes, brushing my teeth, staring at my paintings, or fiddling with my hair―I think about writing here. What will I write this week? What am I feeling? What’s interesting? What’s taking up space? [...] Nothing. I’m not angry, not sad, not hopeless, not calm, not smiling. I only squint when the sun is in my face. If I hear the word “covid” one more time I feel like I’ll combust. I’m sick of this. Sick of people talking about it, explaining it, preaching about how the economy will never be the same. I wish for silence. Why can’t everyone just shut up? I know this sounds hostile, but as I’m not any of the things I’ve listed before, I will say I am honest. Honest as it comes. What I end up writing is never what I had planned. Previously, I had ideas but they seem to disappear once my fingers hit the keys. Similar to when you’re having a hard time when your brain is about to spill over the crown of your head and suddenly I’m grabbing for my headphones and jamming it into my phone and pressing play. Play. Play. Play. Sing. Say something. Everything that was bubbling inside settles to a quiet hum. Maybe I’d even cry a bit, but at once I’m finally at peace. I play solitaire non-stop. For hours without even a pause. It’s either I’m committing to a simple task or I’m doing nothing at all. Every day feels like a Sunday or a Monday, nothing else, just those two. Sometimes it gets so quiet, or maybe I’m just quiet enough I can feel my heart beating in my chest. I can feel it go up my throat, to the back of my neck and to the back of my head like a brace holding me in place.
I pay more attention to the things around me. I’ve started to follow my dreams more carefully even though they’re seriously just figments of my imagination. During a nap I took this evening I heard a music score. I'm back to writing music in my head. I love it when I hear music while I sleep, it must sound weird for people who don’t dream wildly. Maybe, I should’ve written it down or something.
Dr Anupma Srivastava from India on April 13, 2020:
Well-written. First poem is hear-touching.