My Own Wrath

Stress has got me in its gripping hands,
Pushing me though; beyond the limits;
Those that are termed as end points of sufferings.
Suffering has just started for the Sinned,
For neither you nor He can give a hand.
All you filthy beings can is;
Just watch me bleed, break and cry.

Cries not born out of pain but anguish,
Being broken, not to surrender,
But to be triumphant on the bones of the Damned.
Bleeding, not to die as a puppy,
But to fool him and make him slips.

Hit me, Crack me, Shake me,
Twist me, Tear me, Mutilate me,
For every misery I bear,
My resistance grows and
Your hands tremble at every step.
Neither shall my suffering go untold,
Nor your paths of torture will be buried.


Thou are nothing more than a speck of dust.
Fool! Do you think I will give up?
Hear the truth: “For every suffering,
I bear; you shall face the same,
But along with my wrath- a hundred fold increased.