Chaos

In the chaos of life, 

I write letters frequently to my past. 

I get on the bus of the present 

At one stop, 

And 

I get off at another.

I walk alone in the crowd, 

Not getting wet even in the rain, 

Nor perspiring in the sun. 

Yes, 

I get lost in that world 

Where relaxation is nonexistent, 

And only work, 

To Which time is clung

like a wristwatch.

At times, the mind works; 

At times, the pen; 

And at times, 

it's the emotion that works. 

Yes, I never stop, 

And chaos ushers me.