Your poems read as staggered prose;
the rhythm of the words escapes you.
One assumes, un-mused, you chose
a free-verse prison to run into.
You are modern. And it shows
in lack of structure, meter, beat.
Your emperor, set free of clothes
meanders on unsteady feet
exposed as naked, fending blows
from anarch subjects bored to tears
by cryptic, existential woes
and dreary imagery. One hears
within the verbiage you compose
a load of godless free-form tripe.
The lyrical ebb achieves new lows;
the scent is somewhat over-ripe…

A princess of poets, Miss Kaur
Was promoted through publishing's power.
Scrawling lines for a hobby,
This perky Punjabi
Turned rupees to dollars per hour

When it rains, I’m no longer alone,
the sky’s teardrops mixed in with my own.

I was so excited to taste you,
and I loved and cherished everything while it lasted,
but now that it’s over,
I hate the aftertaste.

I’ve always acted like a five year old.
I’ll pout when things go wrong,
I’ll shy away when you begin to say
that something will take too long.
I’ll hide under my covers, up to my head
I’ll hide in the blankets of my soft bed.
I’ll hide from all of the monsters:
anxiety, depression too
I’ll hide away from those mean old things,
and instead I’ll think of you.
I’ll dream a dream, or I think I might
a closed-eye movie to pass the night.
I’ve never been a fan of the dark,
never a fan of fright.
I’ve always loved the day time,
rather than that of night,
until you came to feel my young head with beauty, love, and light.