Face of Adversity

Its deep and dark,
Inside the well;
Excruciating,
Just like hell.

The surface is,
A bed of thorns,
And pierced stones,
That make you bleed
With pain, and groan.

The walls are,
Slimy and filthy,
That make you tumble,
Whenever you
Try to clamber.

Stifling with
An air of oppression,
Sweltering with
The heat of suppression.

No ray of hope shines,
No shower of mercy pours,
No sign of escape appears,
No one answers knocks on the doors.

Afflicted by disaster,
Brutally tortured;
Here you are made to,
Go through the wringer.

A trap it is,
Which sucks you vehemently;
Leaving you traumatized,
In the face of adversity.

A Poem

Flows like a river of thoughts,
With the pen marking its path.

Meanders gently through the meadows,
Collecting words on its course,
Remoulding those into expressions,
That strike the chords, and feelings evoke.

Rejuvenates by its touch,
Gives life to the otherwise dull;
That's the beauty of a poem,
Enlivens the minds, tired and worn.

Rise from the Ashes

You pull me down,
You chain me down,
Even if you try,
To burn me down.
I would rise;
Rise from the ashes,
Like a phoenix,
That never crashes.

You encage me,
In the dark clouds;
Fear and dullness,
All abound.
I would fly;
Fly through the dark;
High up,
Up, above the clouds.

Where, I,
Shake hands with light,
And make my days bright.

Where, I,
Break the shackles,
That arrest my growth.

Where, I,
Think and act freely,
And get myself out of ropes.

Where, I,
Play the host;
And share my love,
With the ones I indulge.

Where, I,
Be the shield,
To protect the meek,
From uncanny tyrannies,
Of the winds and the heat.

Where, I,
Raise my hands,
To give;
And not, to seek.

Where, I,
Succeed in,
Lighting a spark of inspiration,
In those surrounded by desolation.

Where, I,
Rejoice in,
Kindling feelings of joy and hope,
In hearts from which these have eloped.

Where, I,
Fear no limits;
And keep moving ahead,
Crossing daunting goals,
Achieving miraculous feats;
And spreading invaluable smiles,
Across far and wide.

Then, as they say,
When fate comes to play,
One day;
And, I fall,
I would not regret,
Coz I,
Would have, lived it all.

Souvenir of Pain

She knew she'd find,
Under the wraps,
Cruelties of the world;
Alone she came,
And alone, had to return.

Was not shocked,
But just saddened;
This was exactly,
She knew would happen.

Found companions,
While going up the hill;
But no one to hold her hand,
When she stumbled down.

The world was busy,
Jostling to move ahead;
No one cared,
What broke, and, what was shred.

The bruises that were seen,
Evoked sympathy momentarily,
In the eyes of passers-by;
But none could see,
The stabbing pain,
That made her heart cry.

No howls were heard,
No tears were seen,
No ill feelings were bred,
Just,
A souvenir of pain,
And a heavy sigh,
Was all, that was left.

The Wilted Plant

Alone it stood,
In isolation;
Waiting for someone,
To rescue it
From desolation.

The scorching heat,
Made it look parched;
Still no one came;
The thought,
Never sparked.

Nourishment was,
A far cry;
Water alone,
Would have made it high;
If only
Had been given a try.

No mercy showers,
No droplets of affection,
No signs of love,
No care or concern.

Still it stood,
Till the time it could;
Dying a slow death,
Without any regret.

Such was,
The sad plight
Of the wilted plant;
Shrivelled and cramped,
Was its stance.