Its Sunday evening

Birds have gone to rest

Machines hum and vibrate

In discrete frequencies around me.

There's a man standing at the door

Knocking, beating, swearing away

At the wood

But he won't find me

As I type in utter darkness

Breathing slowly, deeply

Calm myself down.

Books lie around me

In piles, scattered

Like pollen grains blown away

By a spring breeze.

Water is scarce

Only a bottle left.

No food remains

Ate expired chicken from the fridge

For breakfast

When the electricity was cut off

Due to non-payment of bills.

It seems, being a writer

Isn't that hard

You just read, starve, write

Sleep and write some more

Until the day Death comes knocking at your door

Like it has for me.