Words in Chains- Complete



The world around me inoculates my thoughts,

With a pen in my hand, as I compose;

The pure ecstasy that moulding words into a poem brings me,

Bringing life to a story on a paper, to people I chose.

And as I write, I make new friends,

Friends I can revisit when I want to;

Tattooed onto my writing pad forever,

Freezing them in time, making sure they never grew.


A paradox to the world we live in,

Words transport me to places I didn’t know existed;

Set in the place of your choice, with the people you choose,

They may be calm in demeanor, or plain twisted.

Weaving situations as the pen scratches the pad,

Tweaking the plot as I proceed,

And as I write, I smile to myself,

Knowing that a happy ending is guaranteed.


The unadulterated joy that reciting my composition gives me,

Warms me from the inside;

Letting anyone who lends me a ear, enter my world,

I couldn’t hide my excitement if I tried.

I’d like to think people like to read what I write,

Understanding and feeling the way I do;

Writers and readers amalgamated by the words of the alphabet,

By means of empathy, knowing what the characters go through.

Organizing what needs to be mentioned, what needn’t,

Sparing me the trouble of getting my speech slurred.

Carefully rearranging letters, suppletory to my thoughts;

Emotions are so much easier to convey through the written word.




I’d always felt the shadows lingering around me,

Eyes fixed, blending into the dark of their presence;

Shrugging it off, convincing myself of being paranoid,

I calm myself down, the fear lessens.

The loitering tug of my inner policing,

Convinced me something wasn’t right,

The foreboding of a future threat

Wrenches me day and night.


After a long day at work, I couldn’t wait to get home,

Watch some unintelligent television, eat some junk food;

Savour the beauty of inactivity; lay lazy on the couch,

Possibly the only thing to lift my mood.

Sprinting towards the bus stop,

My heels clopping against the pavement;

The bus would be here in another twenty minutes,

Waiting alone, I’d have to be patient.


I reach for my bag, fish out my phone,

Tap it against my knee, hoping to get connection to the network;

When suddenly I hear a slight shuffling behind me,

I turn my head with a sudden jerk.

I see a man walk towards me,

Eyes, fixed and glaring;

Before I knew it, his hands covered my face,

Leaving my body limp; with his swift movements so uncaring.




Peeling my eyes open, squint as I struggle to see the unfamiliar surroundings,

Scared, I feel a lancinating pain emerging from my head,

Still amnesic from the events that preceded;

I push myself up, eyes still closed, from the bed.

I’m faced with movement in front of me,

I let out a small scream;

I realize it’s just my reflection on the mirror on the wall,

Began hoping and praying this was all a bad dream.


I hear myself screaming as I shuffle towards the edge;

Half expecting the inertia of ropes that would stop me from moving-

But I didn’t. The creak of a shifting chair emerges from the next room,

Heavy footsteps against the wooden floors, terror inducing.

The door swung open, the familiar shadow of my stalker eclipsed the light,

He flicked a switch and a gold hue was dispersed,

Bulky looking, holding something seemingly small in his hand,

I only expected the worst.


He looked straight at me, eyes bloodshot,

As I sat quivering across him, hands folded across my chest;

He opened his mouth with a voice quivering,

I was shocked. It was nothing like I would have guessed.

It was almost as though he pleaded me,

As he instructed me to sit upright;

He spoke with a lisp and stuttered midway,

His voice didn’t match his sight.

And with one swift movement,

He pushed what was in his hand my way;

I shuddered slightly, panic-stricken,

And I look down, I had nothing to say..




And with one swift movement,

He pushed what was in his hand my way;

I shuddered slightly, panic-stricken,

And I look down, I had nothing to say..

Painted a rotting yellow with paints of time-

A small sheaf of papers, huddled around a pen;

He looks at me, his eyes now soft,

Nothing made sense to me right then.


And in the bat of an eye, his demeanor changed,

His voice a pitch too high;

“Write!”, he yells out too loud

And flings the sheets onto my thigh.

Absentmindedly, I pick them up,

Unconsciously arranging them as I do,

“Write me a masterpiece, only for me;

I’ll give you an hour or two.”


Unsure of his intentions, I let out a little cry,

He hushes me before he storms out,

Iffy as to what to do, tears rolling down my cheek;

I think this man is maniacal, without a doubt.

Enveloped by the silence and the briny scent of my tears,

I begin to write.

I wrote about pain, I wrote about sorrow,

I wrote about how I’d cry through the night.

And as I wrote, I began to forget where I was,

That’s when I hear the sound of the turning key,

He barged into the room and asked me if I was done,

If I was done with my poetry.


He orders me to read it out loud,

And as I do, his eyes wide in passion, I see him squirm in his seat,

I’d be sobbing through it all, he’d wait until I was done,

And then he would ask me to repeat.

That’s when I saw what this was,

It was his unrequited thirst for an art.

An art he wished he possessed. An art he craved.

An art, the longing for which forever stabbed his heart.


Restrained me for his pleasure, he did,

His greed for the art, he wished not to share;

He leeched on the high that poetry provided,

For this he bound me, without a care.

In the attempt of slimming my audience,

To include no one but he,

Everyday he’d make me write and recite to him,

Until then, withholding me from what I need.

Thirty poems later, he was still starved,

His appetite like a hungry wolf increased,

Someday people would realize I’m missing,

I will be saved, saved from his ceaseless need…




I will be saved, saved from his ceaseless need…


I was saved, saved from his ceaseless need,

And when I escaped I grabbed my poems,

That he protects with his unrivaled greed.

Poems written in pain, poems written in hope,

Knowing freedom would come, plush with meanings.

Poems written when I was battered down,

And still hoped to rise from the ashes like a phoenix.


As I find salvation from all that happened,

My words in chains found its essence;

The art that he wished to masquerade and hide,

The dark words found their luminescence.

Published for all to read and see,

My words written in pain.

My words in chains.