Soft as a petal

[The form and style of the poem inspired by Paul Vincent Cannon]

She was soft as a petal,
yet left me sour,
now a memory remains,
softer than reality,
a petal blood red,
my blood that she drew,
yet can’t fault her,
it is her nature,
as a human vampire,
all is lost
as I find no other like her,
the sweet memories,
oh, no, please no,
they too drain with time,
leaving empty me with empty life.

I love the little orange ball

I love the little orange ball near the bell,

signals some one likes my work well,

I eagerly lie in wait for it to appear,

and count it one by one till I wear;

this is healthy as it motivates to write,

but not long ago clueless kids did bite,

a so called blue whale challenge,

the addiction that ends in suicidal plunge;

these verses rhyme but mime prose,

no metaphor, symbol or imagery dose,

yet addicted I scribble and babble, 

like playing a solitaire scrabble;

but I do capture my weary wandering soul,

that cheer a traveler like me to try his goal. 

Deer life forfeit

Sharp and steady the gaze,

lions waiting for the kill,

roar and charge the pride,

deers running at will;

the fast survive,

targeted the weak laggard,

pounce on it jumping high,

one after the other hard;

the hunt is done,

other deers still run,

the predators lazily feast,

it is their place under the sun;

hyenas and vultures wait,

who am I? the deer life forfeit.

Flippant pen

Every one has a real and special talent,

some run, some sing, some dazzle with wit,

but I got nothing to show, nowhere I went,

locked in my cage, brain rust made me dimwit;

I am tired of the sob stories and whining,

but life is hard without any speciality,

don’t even relish food and all the fine dining,

toying words, not special, is sad reality;

I exist but want to live life to the fullest,

words though ill conceived are mine,

someday my carvings may become best,

unmindful of reception must forge fine;

I let my restless flippant pen swagger all bare,

henceforth must cloth it and use only with care.

Cyber Stalker

I am the cute Cyber Stalker,

People think of me fondly,

But wait until they see me,

Pull their pants off,

from right under their nose.

Don’t fret yet,

Uninterested in the clothes,

Steal first style and form from them,

Then the emotions and content,

Until they mere reflections of my portrayal.

Then I suck their souls,

Finally life from their bodies,

Until they mere zombies,

That do all I bid and command. 

An army of zombies,

I shall rise strong,

To conquer the world.

Don’t laugh,

Be frightened,

Please do,

Don’t make me beg,

Oh, I am made a joker again,

The cute and annoying harmless Cyber Stalker.

Mad Riddler


Mad Riddler,

Puzzle none solve,

Chaos none resolve. 

Mad not adjective,

But clinically mad I am,

Under medication.

Bouts of sanity

Within insanity.

I try recapture insanity

Without avail. 

The clouds,

The storms,

The rain,

The painless pain,

The contradictions,

The oxymorons,

Can’t be summoned at will. 

My mind blank,

Heart ablaze,

Body rested,

Fingers race ahead,

To try capture insanity, 

A mad raving beauty.

What anvil forged,

Where hid,

Who did,

How summon mad ecstasy. 

When insane 

I feel no pain,

Nothing, naught, nada,

But the loved ones who take care,

Broken to pieces, 

Filled with acute pain.

Why their kind caring nature,

When I am insane,

Disappear when sane.

Why they fight with me,

Torment me sore,

For that one reason,

I wish to be insane,

Forever without a cure.  

Man without a positive

[This poem was inspired by the form and style of Tushara Olivia ]

Darkness held sway,

I was a negative without a positive,

None willing to print me,

To give me stark relief,

That my puzzle be meaningful to others.

We all derive from the same original master print,

Yet mine scarred and blotched,

Ugly beyond repair.

Other rushes come and go,

Swiftly printed, 

While I wait and languish.

Digital age makes me redundant,

I never find a soul to call my own,

Tear me to pieces if you wish,

But don’t tease me thus, 

To push me beyond anguish.

Many seasons pass,

Sinking my soul to the depths of hell,

I hate waiting for I can’t breathe,

Yet I wait for that is all I can do for now.

Waiting for gentler winds

Dispelling theses storm clouds.

Waiting for a brighter sun,

To cleave the darkness. 

 Waiting for sweeter moments,

To cure boredom.

Waiting for a love

That accepts and heals my negative,

Not bothered that I am a man without a positive. 


I do not love

I do not love a girl, nature or anything else,

don’t love myself, lost in deep self loathing,

me in this earth, facing wrath of all the hells,

yet once was loving and caring, joy did sing;

carry a hate song for those that love me deep,

how long can they withstand such wild abuse,

soon I will be unloved and unworthy of my keep,

me who all doted and adored even without use;

storm clouds in my mind where knives plunge,

for silliest of reasons as decades of laziness rule,

none pity spoilt me, but someday I will lunge,

to choke all arraigned in battle against this fool,

beware my roar and soon the day I wildly soar,

defeating all to climb peak and ask for more. 

Hell Driven

We both love the same books,

he shuns the written word,

but he has thrusted his hooks

deep into you who once abhorred;

In all this chaos where do I stand,

he my friend and you my crush,

from wild summersault can I safely land,

let me push you away, I am in a rush;

why won’t you at least let me leave,

why clutch me like a last lifeline,

when with him your dreams weave,

why haunt when you can’t be mine;

you’ve chosen to show him heaven,

but why you have me to hell driven.

Sweet as a sour grape

She was sweet as a sour grape,

sour as a sweet guava fruit,

a confusion, made me an ape,

in her I never took root;

she was light to my flame,

the rainbow to my rain,

yet she played a weird game,

nagging me to a constant pain;

she did leave me in the end,

for she saw up close all my fault,

I still hope to see her in next bend,

gone my treasure to another’s vault;

yet praise her for I knew love once,

enough to write love poems dense.