Biography of Danya Qattea
Student in a junior high school. I started writing when I was about 10 years old. I was inspired by the simplest things, and continue to be.
Danya Qattea's Works:
0 (So Far! ! !) (*, *)
- Harsh Words -new-
Danya Qattea Poems
I Understand Why the Rose Weeps
Why, people ask, does the rose weep? Every morning, more tears fall. They fall and fall, the droplets falling in sudden bawl. But still they don't understand.
I'm at a crossroads, I don't know what to do. I am very rather depressed, Some would call me blue.
The Mother Tree
A bullet of wind and ice whips through the tree, leaves scatter and fly towards me.
I'm over my head with water and ocean, Trying not to sink with wounds, Hang open. Beauty in a wave comes falling,
Staring at a White Wall
I'm staring at a white wall. The picture is already painted. I'm staring at a white wall. My curiosity? Never sated.
Harsh Words -new-
Words spoken are not always forgotten, stuck in memory and remembered in beauty and ugliness. I have become a house, an ever present place of survival and birth of these words,
Late For School
People running in such a hurry. Snow falling in sudden flurry. People running against time. They are all pushing.
Hope for the Best
Everything is falling apart. I don't know what to do. Thoughts are chasing after me, as if stuck by glue.
Imperfection is my Perfection
Imperfection is my perfection, so, therefore, wouldn't perfection be my imperfection? My thoughts dwell on this, until, with a sigh,
A Face at My Window
I glance out into the night. A face stares back, just in sight. It seems to be resting on the sill, I stop and look away when I get the chills.
Wind blows through my spaceless dimension, The whole place huge But impossible to move in. Every thought is fighting
As I look up at the honey yellow moon, she looks back. She smiles at me, her face filling everything I see.
A slightly burnt meal of bread and butter. A bridesmaid laughs. A dead man mutters. And all the while the bride is waiting.
Nails bitten through nervous habit. Children running as fast as a rabbit. Children laughing through nervous joy. Having stole a brand-new toy.
Words spoken are not always forgotten,
stuck in memory and remembered in beauty and ugliness.
I have become a house,
an ever present place of survival and birth of these words,
with the darkest and lightest of places.
Hatred and love conflict,
yet are twin bruises on the walls of my house.
Both can comfort,
both can hurt,