I’m really quite strange
People usually stay a certain range
See there’s a lot going on in my brain.

Sometimes it’s the horror and pages of Mein Kampf
Sometimes it’s the legacy and memories of Bhagat Singh
I’ve finally found my own groove around this cosmic orbit ring.

I’m obsessed with history
Not trying to crack any code
I like that the future is a mystery

I’m just fascinated by the human experience
Our biology is cosmic brilliance

So what if I don’t move robotically
I’m running on a different frequency

I’m going through this dimension with demons from my last
Maybe that’s one factor adding to my obsession about the past

Maybe I’ve been on this cosmic twelve step way too long
Maybe it’s time to finally finish off strong

I’ve looked for a cosmic release of my soul
To finally rid myself another journey with a dear friend of mines who’s kind a troll



It’s cold and dark
It’s needles sharp
That take deep daggers to my heart

It’s bold
Empty and cold
Not because there’s no-one to hold
But because years of it will make you fold

It’s blinding and fast, it storms up any day it doesn’t warn you
It’s destructive but not selective, it’s creative in how it plays you

It’s deep within my mind
Easier to read than to find
Masks pain with sophistication
Aged red wine.

I’ve exhausted ways to calm the demon
I’ve cried to the sky looking for answers and reason

I’ve held on too nose bleeds off mirrors that would feed
my need to
Toke up with 40 year old whiskey
I’ve tripped down the road with El Es Dee
Taken euphoric pills with no sleep
But still can’t rid myself of this curse that continues to creep
Up on my will to keep
On this path to rid myself of this leech!


It’s familiar and has now begun to feel safe
The pain has begun to feel great
I am no longer scared of this friend who’s a big part of my journey;


A poem by Nivie Dhami
Ik Narivadi


I know now I am not the things that happened to me.

No-one saw the things he would do to me
Sometimes he liked to jab it in real deep
He made sure no-one was around to hear my plea
When he wrapped his hands around my neck not letting me breathe
You know I was only in my early twenties
I remember crying but deep down being totally empty

No-one cared because I’d keep going back to the man who’d make me bleed
It was the cycle I just kept on repeat
Because I was ashamed of who I’d become to be
I wasn’t suppose to carry this legacy
Wasn’t it suppose to end with me?
But it isn’t that easy
To break from my genes
Domestic violence was something I would grow to see as normalcy
So I just assumed that he loved me
I was convinced he was just too angry
I told myself one day he’d also break free
From the violence in his genes
See we were both kids of immigrant families
Holding the same trauma in our family trees
So it just seemed right to forgive his hands on me

But, over time, I too became angry
Soon I was also the one to make him bleed
I’d became the monster that I’d see
Now that monster wasn’t him it was me
He had hurt me so deeply that I had become the things that wouldn’t let him breathe
I had become so angry that I kept fulfilling the violent legacy
of intergenerational pain that comes with being Punjabi

It didn’t end well, it wasn’t pretty
I had to call the 5.0 and then it became his time to plea
We don’t talk now, he hates me
But now I am healing , slowly
I am starting to see that I am free
From the bullshit I had to see
I know now


Nivie Dhami
Ik Narivadi

I have been really quiet, I want to talk.

Let’s talk about the Five Rivers,
Lets talk about 5aab,
I want to talk about my parents,
The Immigrant story; factory worker jobs.

I want to talk about the land,
I want to talk about the Agrarian people,
I want to talk about partition
I want to talk about Blue Star sequels.

I want to talk about 1919 and 1984,
I want to talk about Delhi,
I want to remember Lahore.

I want to talk about our Gurdwara’s,
I want to talk about the politics and significance of the gold,
I want to talk about the genocide,
I want to talk about the Akal Takht bullet wholes.

I want to talk about our pain,
of having our history systemically erased,

I want to talk about the pain,
That follows our youth today.

Brampton to Surrey,
thinking of every Punjabi gully,

I want to talk about the Green Revolution,
The pesticide,
The pollution,
The corruption,
The destruction,
The resistance,
The abductions.

I want to talk about the pain
Of the patients taking the, Bathinda to Bikaner Cancer Trains. 

I want  to talk about the Five Rivers,
I want to talk about Punjab,
I want to talk about the resilience,
In the face of its imperial sahib.

Nivie Dhami
Ik Narivadi


What colonialism does to the world is ratchet!
It’s used as a facet,
In the enslavement of masses.
It gains power over brackets,
Of economic classes,
Collecting blood drenched taxes,
Oppressing generations and telling them to hack it.
And here we are forced to believe democracy is the best practice?
When our versions inconsistent and allows capitalism to buy passes.
Neoliberal fascists!
They use the system to torture and harass us,
Keeping tabs with satellites to track us,
Convincing us they’re NASA’s.
So today I’m calling bullshit on their sorry Pinocchio asses!.

A Poem By Nivie Dhami
Ik Narivadi


I invite you all
to take a little time
to wonder my mind
with thoughts and words that rhyme

I warn you though,
not all of these words are kind.

I hate that in this country I’m supposed to feel some sort of free,
when in this country there are people that go to sleep hungry.

I hate that people act like they care,
by clicking on like buttons on Facebook shares.

I hate the word slut
for how its used
as tools of abuse,
I hate even more that we don’t tak about these issues

I hate that education is key to the locked golden doors
SHUNNED to those that don’t have that sort of money.

I hate that my address is supposed to tell you something about my life
as my self proclaimed victories hide under piles of self loath and strife.

I fuckin hate,
fuckin hate
fuckin hate the system
even more than that I hate that we blame each other for what IT does to us.

Alongside that hate,
I hate that I can’t express this without legislation’s deeming that expression unjust.

I hate that I’m so incredibly weird,
sometimes I even hate that I’m queer

Because in my reality both of these are something to fear.

I hate that when I express this in sweeter words,
people take me for a push over hippie bird.

Sometimes I even hate that I am kind
because it makes a truly good friend hard to find.

I have even begun to hate that I care,
in a cold world world that shows me that there is little love to spare.

I’m sick of being kind about these words,
because my message doesn’t seem to get across like prefer,
SO THIS TIME, I chose another angle,
To FOCUS our ATTENTION on this INTENSE web of lies and oppression,
That’s so fuckin’ tangled….

That’s so fuckin’ tangled.

A Poem by Nivie Dhami

My two min feminist rant. #Raw

If life is but an illusion, its really fucked up and confusin’, I’m sick of the rippin’, tearin’ and abusin’, this patriarchial battle I think we’re loosin, because of the sides we be choosin’.

Why can’t we just support our sisters, even if their choices leave blisters, why can’t we shy away from those ideas of pictures, idolizing these abusive misters.

We can’t we stand side by side, instead of holding on to our foolish pride, even when we hear our sisters cry, we turn our lights off and turn a blind eye, WHY?!

It doesn’t matter that we wear less, but it matters that we care less.

You give reasons to hate her, and give reasons not to date her, and call yourself an ally to the feminist movement?

Seeing the way you move and seeing the bullshit you do, take a seat,

feminist student.

A rant by Nivie Dhami

That time I walked into a room with no mirrors

I walked into a room with no mirrors, the room had been through more ridicule than my own fears.
And so the room didn’t know how to be, because there were no mirrors to dictate how to see.
Mirrors were such a big part of my life, It was these mirrors that encouraged self loathing and strife.
I relied on these mirrors everyday, so this room with no mirrors just blew me away.
I knew this room would soon change the way I feel, because I didn’t need the mirrors anymore to tell me how to be real.
I could strip the cages and unlock the doors, to this new room that put to end all the internal wars.
I was excited to be in this new room, where I would leap to truth and abloom,
I began to decorate the walls, I put up memories to remind me of the scars and falls, from the mirror dolls.
This room was now my home, because without the mirrors I no longer felt alone.
I could sit in the room without mirrors for days, because the room, like me, didn’t need the mirrors any way.

A Poem by Nivie Dhami

Who am I?

I am that person who stops to say hello, because I always hated goodbyes. I stand up for injustices because of the injustices I have caused. I like to smile at people, because I know what it is like to be sad. I like to be a part of healing because I have been the one to inflict pain. I love to dance, for all the times I am caged. I can let myself breathe, because I have taken breaths of my own life and given them to sorrow. I like to be present each moment, in memory of all the moments lost to anger. I allow myself to see the sun because the moons tides keep me humble. I am the only person I can be, who I am, because I am sick of being who I am not.

I am free, because I was not.

Nivie Dhami

What being Punjabi means to Nivie

I walk these colonized streets with Punjab’s light in my eye,
when I see people they always give me that colonized “hi”,
my skin carries my mom’s stories and my dad’s pride,
my nose ring hangs with the songs my Dadhi sang before she died.

“Where are you from?” is a question I have learned to hate,
I feel like yelling “I’m from the same land you’re from stop your ignant’ hate”,
Instead I answer with my Dadha’s pride and educate

Its not their fault,
it’s all they are taught,
their ancestors left India’s people to rot,
after taking everything that they had, GUN SHOTS’,


Exhausting them from wars they fought.
for them, for their mistakes and greed for more,
my words carry stories from those that they hurt and the pain they store,
of the rape of land and women, stories of injustices and gore,
yet we still walk on the streets they tore,


We still walk with turbans to the sky,
We dance to bhangra with our warrior eyes ,
our mothers and sisters wear their suits with pride,
we carry our farms in all the Diaspora, we carry the stories of those who have died.

In bluestar tears,
afraid of bluestar fears,
waiting for truth to persevere,
we are given less hope as (operation) bluestar nears,


A poem by Nivie Dhami
Ik Narivadi