His hair is flawless; his eyes are perfect,
His music: my very inspiration,
His dreamy face is another aspect,
Singing to me in each situation,
But lighting up a smile on the faces,
Of countless devoted, adoring fan,
Does not equal knowing his embraces,
Alas, for him, I would fly to Japan,
Because it pains my heart to love and yearn,
So unattainable; yet I persist,
For someone who will not love in return,
Or know me, nor that I even exist,
For his blood type does lie in the B+ zone,
But — oh dear, I cannot recall my own.
A Single Red Rose
I am a rose,
Curled up within,
Hidden among leaves,
Frightened of the light;
For the light means
And I am scared.
Of growing older
All that I know.
But I realize that
Eventually I will have to
Unfurl my petals,
And venture into the unknown,
Even if that means
Accepting a simple, glass vase.
All the World
I am from Menlo Park, California.
Inside my house live many countries.
I am from cups of steaming Darjeeling tea.
I am from tangy, chocolaty Jaffa cakes.
I am from boxes and boxes of Cadbury fingers and eggs.
I am from a piping hot tray of Shepherd’s pie.
I am from colorful, vibrant Indian saris on every occasion.
I am from the scent of masala, turmeric, and cardamom.
I am from having a loving, supportive family.
From my father telling me to “work hard.”
And my mother telling me to “share the love.”
I am from bright candles on the Festival of Lights.
I am from tying bracelets on my brother’s wrist for Raakhi.
I am from blazing bonfires, Bhangra dances, and peanut shells.
I am from gold mines in Tanzania.
I am from rainy and chilly London.
I am from the mountains of the Himalayas.
I am from soldiers and warriors.
I am from poets, lawyers, and businessmen.
I am from the Sikh religion.
I am from my long, flowing hair.
I am from migrations all over the world.
I am the evening sky bursting with every color.
I am all the world,
Churned and blended into one.