Short Blain Poems

At first the pain was too damn bad
to say that I would live
Until the chance to add some more
came knocking on to give

And I would say of course for sure
I certainly need more
And respect the need to want and blow
my mind to add to horror

So now I claim I'm P.T.S.
and I can go insane
Ignoring all I did that day
when I was sure to blain...

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The poet wished to cry out loud
And vent the slithering pain
Yet void in his sinking heart 
Won't let him flee this blain.

The pen then oozed in torrid red
To scribe 'bout the hovering gloom 
Yet mind feared to find the words
Which would write the poet's doom.

If the poet broke his promise
No flower would ever bloom
So pen hid the poet's torment
Within a heap of silken plumes.

Prashant Shaurya © 
All Rights Reserved...

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I felt a painful blain, during the feverish slackening of repeating rain
The pain far worse than a usual swell, reminds me how it rains in hell
If the drops could not perish from their comfort zone, my wound would want to make a moan

More than a red mark; as the rain continues, I felt my wound hit by a spark
The pain goes on like a wheel cart, only stopped when it loses its spiel
I wished the hectic drops would retreat, one step to become a memorable defeat...

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