Loser

I’m not accustomed to
Become a loser
I’m not prepared to
Ever surrender
And when I do, like a dead leaf
I crumble
A battered shrub
I now resemble

My body whole is
Filled with failure
My self-esteem—
Now just a fracture
My once hot blood
Sends me cold shivers
Where have they gone
My grand endeavours

And, worst of all, I had
Deceived you
Out of all people, I
Betrayed you
And then ran back to you
In shame
For you to save me
From my blame
once again

.

.

.

.

Advertisements

Night shift

The lights go out one by one
The day has dawned on everyone-
The night owls though return to sleep
Where daily pleasures they do keep
Whilst the round sun doth brightly shine
In wildest dreams their thoughts entwine
Till twilight dawns, and minds enmeshed
They wake up rested and refreshed

.

.

.

.

.

.

 

Magic bus

I went inside a magic bus
And sat down on a lily
The fragrance was so luscious but
The seat was somewhat chilly
My mind was filled with daffodils
And I felt somewhat silly
For there amidst the petals rose
I met a man named Billy

He looked at me and I at him
He offered me a smile
His words smelt like a baby’s breath
We chatted for a while
He urged me to forget him not
And spoke with such great guile
That I could swear on bergamot
That this man had a style

But then the bluebells faded out
And Billy disappeared
My buttercup turned to a corpse
And that’s what I most feared
Yet bees were buzzing in the crowd
And all the birds still cheered
So I stepped out the magic bus
Before it got too weird

.

.

This poem was requested on Fiverr.
Order your own poem to support me!

.

.

Not everything is perfect

Not everything is perfect.

Such are the words uttered by a perfectionist
Who consoles themselves after another defeat
Blindly believing that SOMETHING, something CAN be perfect
Constantly seeking to find that perfection
Someday, someplace, somehow.

Nothing is perfect.

Perfection as a word, as an abstract entity
Is in itself a perfection.
It presupposes that there are perfect things—
Yet, like all perfections, it has a flaw
Because perfections do not exist.

Everything makes perfect sense this way.

.

.

.

.

White death

Devoid of reasons to write
All in poet’s mind becomes white
An eye, without the black of the iris
It spreads and submits like a virus

The poet seeks measures to fight
Reads books during long, sleepless nights
But the pages, so pleasantly written
With a haunting whiteness are smitten

The poet observes a beautiful landscape
Looking hard for a route to escape
But finds none. For the land is all covered with snow
The chances of fleeing are low.

In worthless attempts to conquer a page
Her frustrated mind succumbs to rage
The shell of poet’s persona crack
Of space and time she loses all track
And she knows, there is no coming back
When the paper’s all black.
When the paper’s all black.

.

.

.

.

.

Doki doki

An axe behind my back — don’t really hide it
It just feels silly carrying it in such plain sight —
I ring the doorbell, hi, I’m here to kill you
But don’t you dare give up without a fight!

Come in, come in, she smiles, been waiting
Her fingers slightly nervous as she closes the door
You’d like some coffee, tea, no thanks
I’m in some rush, so let’s get down to the floor

Right, right, she hesitates a bit,
Some of her memories seem to linger on
With a deep sigh she reaches for a bottle
A mighty gulp of liquor helps her carry on

Let us not tarry then; she lies down quickly
And spreads her limbs. Her eyes now close
Breasts rising gently, soon to fall down again
Readying my axe, I strike a pose…

But I can’t strike. I can’t.

It’s just some fiction…
Why does my heart feel such unearthly friction??
I set my pen aside. Bury my face in hands.
Some thoughts need not be written, but stay in foreign lands…

.

.

.

.

Inspired by Dan Salvato.