P.O.W: Prisoner of Words
By Samara Bharath
Captive of the words I etch,
Burning from within this wretch.
Refugee seeking shelter from paper,
Maybe the words will be my Savior.
Enclosed in the four parameters of white,
Writing sparingly just for spite.
Captured from the beginning, against my will;
Running from the ending, pen in hand still.
Will they find me here, destroy my holy sanctum?
Make me a slave, under their white-out, I succumb?
Bound to the enjambments of every page,
Bound to the personas and pseudonyms I stage.
Confined to the script of publishers and PR’s;
Consumed by pretending to write like a star.
What commenced as a hobby has blossomed into horror.
What started as a release has left me in a stupor.
As a Prisoner of words, I bend to the lines;
I deal with errors, I make allowances for time.
As a prisoner of words, I condone the crimes;
I absolve any scams, and I don’t serve the time.
As a prisoner of words, I am enslaved with my fear;
From Sweatshop to print, I seldom come up for air.
Captive of the words I etch, prisoner of the rhetoric I smoke;
Being a prisoner of words is nothing but the cruelest joke.