WordOfChen

So Damned AloneIsolation mixed with anxiety All alone in these four walls, Which I learned to call my home; Silence so thick that my breath Echoes and rebounds. Once I had imagined how good it feels To be left so alone; But now the stillness in the air Is like a pall, and death. There is nobody else around. No calls on my telephone; No mails for me to read. No friends, old or new, come by; Perhaps they think that I am dead?

A Sight to SeeReminiscing I wandered the streets of the city1 Like the beggars I have met; So many eyes fell upon me, Until I found  a spot to rest. They all wondered how a fireng2 Had the same fate as all of them. But so I had, and for so long; Looking about for a place to lie, When the sun begins to set. I begged for shelter, sometimes for food; Most gave to me with few words. So I lay back to wait; But no new news had I heard. Then, one day, a friend had said That, if I should move further south* I might find the help I sought. So, I moved. Slowly things began to happen That should have happened at the start. 1. Pune, Maharashtra, India

Fever DreamFor WordofChen Midst the slow, growing burn Deep down, inside my throat, The flesh within turns red; I really have to wonder, Is it my turn? Will I soon be dead? I close my eyes, I try to sleep; But finally, and instead Of dreaming of my getting well, I dream of a fate of torment and of pain In my own hell.

Not My DayWhat a way to spend the Fourth of July! Today is just not my day; Nothing good seems to come my way. I received an eviction warning at my door; I have five days left to pay, Or find a new room in which to stay. And to make things worse, It is the fourth of July. Don't count on my embassy in any way. Just be good enough And stay away.

Never nocturnal, yet the yore lingered in dark. Perhaps the pain, eternal. No scintilla of spark. Neither spark nor a glow. Just the void beside. Nor a facade, in view, behind which I could hide. Possessed oblivion, but nihility. But a sole pen. Helpless and feeble, without a single friend. Pondered if my life was worthless in a blink. The saviour from the agony: just a speck of ink. The darkness provided the light for me. The verses developed the fight for me. Each line, each rhyme, each word an anodyne. Vented the asinine, heeded by the divine. Intended not for fame, but alleviate the pain. Against the devil at every level of life's hellis

Come and watch this pyre burn, flames of bright bright red. Come and listen to stories told, when the darkness descends. From truths birth tales, what do you think fuels this fire?

How’s it feel, always being second best? Just a step too late, always. You couldn’t save anyone, not one single person, always a second or two late. You’re never in the spotlight, but so close you could feel the heat. Second best it is.

Here I am in front of my laptop once again… Trying to construct poems for my well-being But it seems I can’t think straight these days I can’t clutch new ideas properly, oh how annoying! Not to mention my inspiration kept slipping away… I can’t seem to think why I can’t grasp a new concept Must be from all of the activities that forcefully choke us? I know that, but what else? I kept making assumptions… Maybe because of all the adversity I had to clench on? Or maybe my emotions draining like blood from a cut? Or the thought of trying to breathe despite difficulty? Or maybe due to the idea of looped si