With the Coming of Night 

The moon pulled in a blanket

Of darkness over the sky

Lit up windows slowly faded

Like dying stars of the night;

My bedside lamp was barely alive

Intensifying and growing dim

Mimicking the blinking of my eyes;

Both succumbing to the tire and strain

From trying to keep alight,

And craving sound sleep at least,

Tonight. 

©Isha Malaviya.

The Evolution of Writing Tools

Aeons ago

Charcoal and stones carved

Poetry into the bones

Of anything that could keep up with the whirlwind

Of words;

 

A few odd centuries ago

Writers fell asleep to the echo

Of typewriters furiously fighting

To keep up with the whirlwind

Of words;

 

The clicks and taps drowned in the snaps

Of switches starting computer screens

And fans whirring endlessly

Trying to keep up with the whirlwind

Of words;

 

Yesterday, a midnight thought struck me,

I reached for my iPad, no sign of pens or sheets;

My walls only hear the constant beeps

Of notifications received,

The knell for the memories

Of typewriters and pens clicking,

pages tearing; rings loudly in this century,

And now words try to keep up with the whirlwind

Of technology.

©Isha Malaviya.

Note to Self

A cut on my skin

Tells me that I am not

Invincible.

 

A scar on my skin

Tells me that I’ve fallen,

Trying.

 

A bump on my skin

Tells me that I am

Human.

 

A stretch mark on my skin

Tells me that I am

Growing.

 

A little fat under my skin

Tells me that I am

Healthy.

 

The folds and valleys of my skin

Tell me of my own

Story.

 

Not every obstacle

Needs to be demolished.

Not one piece of my body

Needs to be corrected.

©Isha Malaviya.

 

Carnival 

Mood swings- creaking under my weight

Rust dusting off the chains

Bare bone visible now,

Cut into my hands; but if I let go

I’ll soar straight into the ground

Exhausted, given up;

I don’t want to give up just yet

 

Rollercoasters- at terrifying heights

Late night highs, plummeting into

Shadows cast around by

Broken light

I have arrived

At the end of the tunnel

Again.

 

I keep waiting for the final bow,

Because everyone tells me

Life is meant to have

Its ups and downs

Before the real fun;

And so like a child I cry,

For one last time

on the amusement park rides;

But a carnival shouldn’t look

Like tortured souls and teary eyes.

 

©Isha Malaviya.

 

Timeless 

Take me to a club

Worthy of old movie screens;

We’ll sit across each other 

At a dimly lit table 

You’re working an old cigar,

I’m serenading a glass of whiskey 

In the smoke-choked atmosphere 

A tiny lamp outlines our silhouettes

Illuminating your eyes, lighting up my smile;

They’re playing timeless swing and jazz

The kind that makes you want to leap up 

And dance;

Two figures in the moonlight

Black and white;

You and I,

Our lives,

Are the Old Hollywood kind. 

©Isha Malaviya.

The Perfect Dystopia 

What’s perfect?

Not me, not you 

Not a celebrity’s forced smile

Or a quick pose for the paparazzi’s lights 

The grass will always be greener 

On another side

And even the greenest will eventually die

Not the air we smoke in, take in, that only few let out

Not waves rolling over sea shelled beaches and farm droughts

Into villages and above struggling feet and hands now 

Not expensive shoes and nude lipstick hues

Not the words we utter or the ones we leave mute

First kisses and first loves are overrated 

(And expiry dated)

This rhyme isn’t perfect

And neither is time

Because ‘perfect’ is a dystopia

Just like our lives.

©Isha Malaviya.

He Cries Too

From the outside

He looked fine.

Laughing with his friends

Smiling every once in a while,

 

But just under the surface

He was fighting a war-

Demons versus soul;

Still, he rose with every fall

 

He was so good at hiding it

Sometimes he lost himself

And when he couldn’t put the pieces back

He would fall apart again

 

And although he did not

Want anyone to know,

He secretly hoped it would be noticed

Before he let go

 

When he finally became so faded

Faces were turned

When he was ready to tell someone,

And his words went unheard;

 

Because society filters our voices

It’s only their words that hold truth,

They claim to know us

Better than we do

 

But you didn’t know him one bit

Or you would’ve known his strife

You had your way once again,

And an angel lost his life.

 

©Isha Malaviya.

 

Prints

I’m a fingerprint in the sands of time

Surrounded by giant, heavy footprints

That set bigger legacies 

Than I could ever dream of;

And yet I still try-

At least I think I do,

But the mud around their prints has solidified, 

It’s etched in concrete ground;

Mine will blow away in the wind

Just like my memories do now. 

©Isha Malaviya.

Schools are dying with the sound of bullets 

[TW: violence, PTSD]
Gunshots replace school bells 

Bullets break windows, not tennis balls 

Children are crying, not laughing

For the first time, teachers are helpless

This wasn’t part of their curriculum 

Students are lying flat on the floor

Some scared, some succumbing to their wounds

Somewhere in that classroom

There was a potential lawyer, teacher

President-in-the-making, doctor, engineer

Athlete, writer, journalist, police officer,

Caretaker, social worker, activist, lobbyist,

Rebel, actor, director, musician, son, daughter,

Future wife, future husband, grandchild, niece,

Nephew, sister, brother, cousin, best friend, neighbor;

Everyone in that classroom 

Was human. Don’t blame just the ‘lunatic’ 

He couldn’t have killed 17 people without a gun

You, the system, handed it to him 

And you still won’t take it away

How many more people must die 

Before you get it in your head,

GUNS ARE NOT A BASIC HUMAN RIGHT. 

A person’s own life is. 

[May Parkland and all other victims of gun violence find peace and reforms.] 

©Isha Malaviya