Tag Archives: Poetry

What Stops Me from Writing?

What Stops Me from Writing?

It is the fear of losing out—
The experience, that is—on the Present
That I sometimes
Stop myself from writing.

However, it is the boon of—
Heart, that is—self-belief
That I reserve as I
Get back to writing.

It is the fear of falling behind—
the dreaded race, that is—monies
That I sometimes
Stop myself from writing.

However, it is resorting to—
Karma, that is—calmness under pressure
That I fall back upon myself and
Get back to writing.

It is the fear of getting lost in—
cluelessness, that is—the abundance of words
That I sometimes
Stop myself from writing.

However, It is the truth of—
Candid confessions, that is—life
That I seek, and thus,
Get back to writing.
© Suyog Ketkar Continue reading

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The Call of the Pen

Pen down, digress not
For you must scribe much more
Than what’s beyond fantasy
Write what’s fathomable in only a lore. Continue reading

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Here’s Monsoon

When the heat burnt souls alive,When the thirst to quenchNothing but physical selvesTurned all choices but naïve,When the harks went unheard-ofAnd everyone began to strive… The boon served us with a downpourThat drenched us with happinessDecorated our windows withInvaluable pearls … Continue reading

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Be that Faith

Through the watery eyes that flow,
In the smoldering hearts that glow,
Be the faith you wish the world to sustain. Continue reading

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Flipside

Time that once was clueless,
Brought me down on my knees
Time, the all mighty, now
Tells my brave tales, too. Continue reading

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The Soul Purpose

Brought to thee
The stories that have
Countless stories within, the Self knows.
Who knows what’s more?

Smelt the magic of the rains—
The petrichor. Though,
Drenched, lost, drowned is
My conscious, helpless Self, to the core.

The evening strands of gleaming light—
Your fragrance it is, or am I
Afloat the love unbound?
Don’t bother bringing me back ashore.

The chirping of birds.
The rustling of leaves.
Thoughts that come and go.
A rhythmic lore it is, I am sure.

Turned orange, the evenings, again.
Silently mourns my soul.
Wilfully nervous, it tells me.
Could oneness be any pure?
©Suyog Ketkar Continue reading

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