the poet’s woe

I picked up my pen today
Nothing came out of it.
But a bloody mess
Of all those I’d forgotten.

The blood-stained paper
Filled with the anger and despair
Of an innocent child
Wronged by the world.

The words written down,
Sharper than the edge of a sword
Took the shape of the despised
The harrowed and the hated

The mind, once full of ideas
Now filled with rage
Distressed and tired
Drowning in its own sorrow

It hurt my fingers,
But I kept on writing
For all that was trapped within me
Finally took a shape.

To liberate my flickering mind
From its own demons
I kept on writing.
I wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t.

What is this curse
That has been placed upon me.
Once, a source of joy
Now the same pen haunts me.

Maybe this is my punishment.
Maybe this is how I atone.
For the sin of living
Living in this accursed world

~Himan Deka

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