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Krishna Anand Poem
Weaved by the spider
The webs were supposed to be strong
Connecting points on the wall
With the arachnid, there and tall
Once it hunted the ants on the ground
Now tried to get flies surround
The webs he built were tough and sound
The walls were there, there and around
But the weaver thought of the points
To be strong like his joints
Unaware of fragility of webs
Caused by the slippery points
The points were unhinged
Tangled was the poor eight legged
Cuffed in the webs he weaved
But even then he never begged
Remade cobweb once again
Now checks the points' oil in rain
Tries not to let his guard down
But still fears the tangling sound
Copyright © Krishna Anand | Year Posted 2026
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Krishna Anand Poem
Wolves are said to work in packs
For apex they are
They plan and hack
Giving a group's scar
There exists wolves
Who work alone
Are called lone
And always hone
In the snow they meet a raven
Not a wolf but a new family
The presence later feels like heaven
Quite different but have a simile
They eat together
Never think to harm
They live separately
But together believe in calm
They are inseparable
They trust each other
The bond is not blood
But they thrive forever
They bond and hunt
And do it together
The forest fears them
And it passes to generations, dear
Copyright © Krishna Anand | Year Posted 2026
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Krishna Anand Poem
I was traveling on a road
A road with no diverging
A road expected to be smooth
A road texture of which can be trusted
I encountered many jerks
The ride was becoming unpleasant
I still continued
In hope of leaving the jerks
I encountered potholes now
The ride was now impossible
Yet I had some fraction of hope inside
I kept on travelling
I kept in mind
If potholes return
I will change my medium
Or will change the road
We travel on roads to get a smooth ride
Jerks can be tolerated
Even sometimes only
Potholes are impossible
If one continues their ride
Even on potholes
They either hope for a smooth path
Or are stubborn fools to drive
Copyright © Krishna Anand | Year Posted 2026
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Krishna Anand Poem
There's an ability
Might be rare but allegeds stability
The curse of thinking
Usually pretty usefull
Comes in handy
And keeps the situation cool
The dark side do exist
As it forces to over-analyze
Compels one to always think
And makes many situations, realize
Forces one to overthink
Perhaps the biggest drawback
As well as some boon to bear
If the analysis delays the setback
Changes your view
By which you see others
If they fail to observe
You'll disgust them forever
Prevents cringe habits
And avoid those having them
Many might climb on you
Like you're some kind of stem
It gives you some morals
And apathize sympathy
Those who seek it exist
And when you don't, they envy
The curse of thinking
It is as it is
Can't change its nature
And have to bear as it is
Copyright © Krishna Anand | Year Posted 2026
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Krishna Anand Poem
It's not about the age factor
Neither about the your own protector
The decisions might be highly biased
Depends on their upbringing and experience
And yet what we do we've been told
As always, even fools grow old!
Not everyone knows the value of silver
Every metal has a good use
Whether it's iron, zinc or gold
As always, even fools grow old!
Criticism might hurt the ego within
Patience and empathy has always been lacking
The country's ruined, yet the culture's called bold
As always, even fools grow old!
You cannot be the punching bag
You're not one to satisfy someone's ego
Yet you never question, because you're just told
As always, even fools grow old!
A drunk can marry,
A drunk can have children
And just for another sip, they can be sold
As always, even fools grow old!
One can be very unstable
One might not tolerate childishness
And here comes the baby's trauma, as they got scold
As always, even fools grow old!
Democracy or dictatorship
Or even the crooked monarchy
All leads to just one controlling mold
As always, even fools grow old!
Facts comes from books,
Education from institutions,
But wisdom requires, guts too bold,
And as always, even fools grow old!
Copyright © Krishna Anand | Year Posted 2026
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Krishna Anand Poem
I ran forever believing to be conscious to some extent
Once I realized, I was just being sentient!
Each cell of my body was tied to a very visible string,
It was just me who was blind enough to unsee
Each thread was being controlled by someone from the audience
Neither I knew them, nor they recognized me.
The race was just too long for me to complete by now
I wasn’t even halfway through when I realized
That something’s quite inexplicable
Not exquisite but unfathomable.
I noticed that the audience was classified by age
The experienced ones had their experience outdated
But still were holding most of the threads for coverage
The next gen was eager enough to learn but
Innocent enough to copy their wicked elders.
Amidst the thread holders there was a third group
They were of my generation
Not part of the race, it astounded me
They were not holding any thread, but were promoting the scissors
No runner ever listened to them, perhaps out of the regret of their wasted shoes.
I realized something
I was not at all conscious, I was barely even sentient
The race was not everything, something was parallel to it, perhaps better
Perhaps it was not for everybody, perhaps it was bitter.
At the end of the day all I could remember was that the hardest choices require the strongest wills!
Copyright © Krishna Anand | Year Posted 2026
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Krishna Anand Poem
The pome was sweet
Never wanted to quit
Might've thought so
But never acted on it
Had a million seeds within
Each akin to some thought
Some were in the plates of others
Some were left inside to rot
Pome wanted to recite and sow
From poems to seeds it had
Had no column not a row
To write and hence the skin got bad
Pome was sweet red
Seeds were stiff white
Some had the juicy coverings
Some rotted and lost their might
It was sure just red pome
Not the granite deep in the crust
Pome might look stiff outside
It's nowhere near the rocky rust
It tended to become like granite
Pome tried, pome failed
It mended itself day and night
And finally it realized
The rotten seeds are futile
Not every seed should go in plates
Not every pome gets an eater
And it's okay to not to elucidate
Pome is now different
Tend not to worry about rotten seeds
Pome accepts the partial sweetness
It now trim or just pass by weeds
Copyright © Krishna Anand | Year Posted 2026
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Krishna Anand Poem
I was watching my childhood
When I saw them playing
On a ground of new-felt joy
No restrictions and they were enjoying
Saw what I was a vollyball
Used as a basket one
They were enjoying the moment
And that was enough fun
I saw a group playing volley
They didn't know the rules
Neither they had the skills for it
And they didn't care less
Another group played, on the same ground
It was a handball, used differently
It was a game of catch
And they were so happy
One ball came to me
It missed my face though
Thought I could return it
Then remembered the past of mine
I ain't good at the sport myself
But surely more capable then them
Thought I could teach them some
Then remembered, my own childhood
I was like them, they're better though
Didn't know how to play, but wanted to
Didn't had the stamina, yet enjoyed the game
Didn't had any restrictions, never wanted one as well
Never wanted one to interfere
In the game I played with my friends
Never wanted one to lecture
In the game where fun never ends
I know they'll learn soon enough
And will cherish the memories as I do
Should I teach them today the game
And they'll never have the mistakes to do
Won't they enjoy the stupid actions
Never will experience those self made rules
They'll lose their childhood freedom
Which was beyond, those formal rules
Let them enjoy the way they do
I had my childhood, so they do
Let them create some memories too
Which they'll cherish, by seeing what I saw through
Copyright © Krishna Anand | Year Posted 2026
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Krishna Anand Poem
The body of The Wind Guy
Stays there but not the mind
Don't show how it breezes
And always seem to be just fine
The mind of The Wind Guy
Don't know where to in
So it tend to step back
And then just stop the breeze
The cardiac of The Wind Guy
Knows the flow is streamline
Still it feels turbulent
To avoid causing any dent
The graph of The Wind Guy
Need time to fix the axis
It might be already okay
The flow just doesn't seem like it
The eyes of The Wind Guy
Sees it what is sees
Observes the flow's directional change
Tend not to interrupt
The wind of The Wind Guy
Become neutrino sometimes
To avoid causing slashing scars
Snd tend to come when the storm's over
The thoughts of The Wind Guy
Overthink the companion breeze
Fears of losing everything
Then steps back and let is ease
The face of The Wind Guy
Want to have some incoming breeze
Can't express and let it flow
Like the void it used to be
The brain of The Wind Guy
Sometimes think the past was better
No side breeze to worry about
Just a wind in the peaceful void
The shape of The Wind Guy
Is like a growing grape vine
Wants a stick many times
Can't express and just flow trying
The value of The Wind Guy
It's subjective but he knows it
Soothes the weeping and gives them warmth
Flows showing chrips but asks observer from inside
Copyright © Krishna Anand | Year Posted 2026
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Krishna Anand Poem
It's neither sympathy
Nor cultural
Neither pure, nor impure
But purely natural.
Yes the blood is real
And it's not to be ashamed of
Yes there's pain and cramps
But it cannot make your work stop!
Yes there are pads and cups
And many electric tools
Yes they are pretty normal
Untill 'n unless you belong to the fools.
Yes there are pills
And they're pretty deadly too!
Just to hide for the sake of tradition
Foolishness become a part of you!
Kitchen can't be restricted,
Temples don't go unholy.
Black bags bring in shame for real,
And give her mind a melancholy.
No it ain't a mockery arsenal,
Not something to make joke of,
We mustn't turn it into slur,
Cuz it's neither pejorative, nor scoff!
Friends should know about it,
Brothers should be taught.
Fathers must not command to hide,
Cuz it's something to be open about!
Copyright © Krishna Anand | Year Posted 2026
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