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 shells 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.

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The writing on the wall

Have you seen the writing on the wall?

It doesn’t tell about the people who must suffer
It’s not a story of a broken-hearted lover
It doesn’t portray hate against the government
It doesn’t spark debate on unemployment
It wasn’t scrawled down by a soul that wrings in agony
Nor by a woman fighting hard against misogyny

Have you seen the writing on the wall?
It’s just a scribble by a 12-year-old.

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Poems on demand

Doing poems on demand
Empty, pretentious and bland
Not a feeling of my own
It’s a wonder I haven’t thrown
Up.

Words that I don’t really mean
Catchy, sterile and clean
Not a feeling to convey
There’s no problem as long as they
Like.

Whole affair’s just a joke
Silly, facetious and fake
Not a feeling left in me
Just a moment and it will be
Gone.

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