I’ve got this catastrophic thought brewing in my mind, where the unforseen become a part of my nightly dream.


I take that back, for the dream metamorphosis unwillingly to a goosepimply nightmare.
As the dark claws of night approach, I try to catch a wink of sleep in my not so commodious cupboard-like room. This is a place where I catch a snooze after the hassle and hustle of a pathetic life in the slums.


My unpleasant roommates fume with a foul odour sustained from their shit parking profession.
I’m no better, I hawk and beg and do whatever I can to survive a day away.
My goal? To live.

This orphanage is my shelter, the roof over my head for two more years. My blurry future after I turn eighteen leaves a cramp of fear in this sixteen year old heart.
My Fear? More suffering.

As I hunger for the daylight when I lay my head to rest, so do I silently weep for the sorrow that will be the clingy pest by it.
I was born and abandoned by mere weaklings.
My Pride? I’m not a weakling.

I’m on a carriage ride to the unknown – I refuse to readdress the fact that I’ve been left alone – a place that seems near but is truly royally distant.
The bumps on the road refuse to induce any effect but pain. A bruise here upon my wrist, a bruise down below my knee, a bruise everywhere is what it gives and who am I – a common slave – to refuse its gift.
This carriage ride in my nightmare has become a constant journey. The unknown approaches. A future unforeseen. Need I remind you that I’m the orphan with parents, yet abandoned to my fate.


The birds sing a melody and I blink myself awake. Same place everyday. A cupboard-like room to lay my head. My companions and friends, the orphans by me, the roaches that approach, the rats that squeak.

Be thankful they say. I am thankful, for my dead but living parents that would someday pay for throwing their once little boy far far away.

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