“Thoughts”


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there she is–
lost in her thoughts, again.
he wants to tease her–rattle her;
even if that makes her yell at him.
he’ll do anything;
just so she stops going back,
to her memories of another man.
but, there he is–lost in her, again.
he wants to hit himself;
kick himself–even when it’ll hurt.
he’ll do anything;
just so he stops drowning in her,
over and over again.
for, seeing her delve in thoughts
of someone else,
hurts so much more
than anything else, ever can.

–Diwa

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“Requited Love”


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“can you please stop mentioning him?” he mutters.

“okay… i will,” she concedes.

“now, please. let’s talk about us instead,” he gently sways her.

“yes. let’s do that,” she says and tries to smile brightly at him.

“you know what? i don’t want to end this but i know you aren’t really into me. go back to him. you still love him. i’m sorry. goodbye. please be happy. i love you,” he tells her sadly.

for he knows that they can never be happy together. he loves her but she doesn’t feel the same for him.

–Diwa

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“You’re My Ink”


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if loving you can never be;
then let me suffuse
my pen, instead.
i’ll use my love, for you;
as the ink that pours forth,
the longing and regret
that accompany my nights.
ah, love that wets my eyes,
make these words reach
its object, while he sleeps.
perhaps, that can help him
perceive the exacting agony,
he unfolds, in me.
mayhap, you’ll succeed;
then he’ll see why my loss,
of him, has deeply damaged me.
perchance, your whispers
shall even convince him,
to come back to me.

–Diwa

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“A Complicated Set-Up”


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i love you,
and you love her;
and then,
she loves
someone, else.

oh, what
a complicated
set-up.

if only we all
loved the ones
who loved us,

and everyone
had someone
for them;

then no one
had the need
to be hurt.

–Diwa

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“Cupid, O Cupid!”


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clouds that mess with my vision;
i blow you away from me.
i need the clearest view,
of the love they took from me.
hasten, oh hasten,
cumulus clouds of cotton.
clear the path for cupid’s bow;
so he can shoot arrows
of fabled fairy dust,
straight into the heart,
of the man i’m looking at.
oh naughty wind, behave.
trample the frolick, you silly knave.
i need the perfect timing
that may help get backo
the man, they’ve got.
a little bit faster,
stop your arrow’s quiver.
little boy with the silvery bow,
quit your teasing,
make your perfect throw.
for the love i have is fast a-fading.
you might not need,
to do my bidding.
poof! now it’s too late.
the memory of my love,
for him, has faded.

–Diwa

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