The Hated Acquaintance.

There are good people. There are bad. And then there are ones who momentarily turn evil and tease children out of mere boredom. My father’s friend from the third category, once came upto me and said “So I heard you write. Creative stuff. What do you write?” “No preset theme, just about anything” “Oh that’s over confident of you. If you can write about anything, write me a poem on mosquitoes!”

“Uncle, I indeed didn’t mean I can write about anything. I only meant I do write about random things. Anyway, do you have a pen? Give me quarter an hour if you do.”

None’s familiar with the flapping wings

That mark their destiny of torture.

None’s seen their closely striped bellies

That are filled with our essence of existence.

None’s worked close with those sadist minds

That constantly calculate bloody intentions.

But most of us know the momentarily powerful sting

That can easily distract us from anything.

While a torrent of pain sketches ugly frowns on faces,

They are only aware of their dutiful sucking.

Humans tend to murder them extempore,

And if missed, deeper than all pain is regret.

All have experienced their unwelcome presence,

And these lean mean beasts are in singular named,
The Mosquito.