Diva Kaur's Poetry and More

who am i? i have multiple selves, one that is insecure, and dislikes attention. one that is immature and craves affection. am i the person i am whilst on my own? will my true self remain unknown? my multiple selves fight for power, as i depersonalise and try to discover when will this war be over? who am i? a question i cannot answer, am i the person everyone perceives me to be? am i not the author, and just the story? who am i? i contemplate while my selves fight, who am i? i cannot decide. who am i? a question that lead to sleepless nights. who am i? which one of my selves is right?

 something distracting you from all your worries, the feeling of living a fantasy, with pheonixs and unicorns, with wizards and queens on thrones, making you feel less alone. traveling in worlds unknown, reading till your eyes are sore, but your heart still wants more. all those unimaginable things that lure leaving you allured. it feels like a warm hug, one that makes you feel loved, it is but a book, changing the way the world looks. "a pen is mightier than a sword" they say, and i couldn't agree more the smell of a new book, nothing can beat the feeling of paper on which the author dreamt can still be felt losing yourself in the plot, oh what a lovely feeling it is, to be lost

 growing up from being children playing at the park, to being children that aren't afraid of the dark. time has passed and flown away, but my mother's love is still my safe space. wanting to be that kid again, the one who solved that maze, on that newspaper each day. the kid who didn't know what algebra was, the one who was scared of ghosts the most. the kid who thought fairies were real, and who's eyes would always have zeal. and would leave her milk tooth under her pillow hoping for a gift the one who wanted to grow up finding out about the world would throw up growing up seems appealing, but it is scary in reality. soon it would be time to fill applications and choose colleges, and study because my future depends on it. i still sit in the park and reminisce, of the absolute bliss. and the dark still scares me, and i still hope fairies exist. growing up is scary, especially the maths i have to study, but it helps when my mothers love secures me. one day, these days wi...

 chaotic, the waves of the ocean, a rhythm unmatched, never knowing what's going to happen, all one can do is watch, as the waves come crashing fast, instead of running, stay there, because it won't last they'll calm down, and go slow, match their pace, and you too will know, the chaos, that is hidden in beauty surreal, completely unreal

 sense and sensibility, sense is when i think with my head and sensibility is when my feelings take over instead. i cannot separate those two. and when i do, sensibility is the one i chose. but chosing sensibility means mourning all that is lost, and crying because sense was what i needed most

what is the point of watering the tree of life when the fruit is death? what is the point of a moment of happiness, when sadness is all we receive at the end What is the point of holding on till the last breath, if we'll die one day, just like our brethren What is the point of having hope when all we beget is our descend, what is the point of holding on to this last strand, when one day this too shall fall, along with us What is the point of sharing when all that it does is take from us. what is the point of our existence, if one day no one remembers our name? What is the point of friends if at the end its all ashes that accompany us. what is the point of love, if one day, it too leaves? what is the point of feelings, when they too, hurt us? What is the point of feeling at all. If it would hurt a lot less without it. what is the point of anything, then, if everything leaves and we get left?