Enigma of Creativity
Why do I write poems?
Why do I split rinds of Onion?
What do I get by digging into my minds grave?
What further is left for me to crave?
Is there anything beyond he hill I don't see?
Do I need to share my irrational philosophy!
And what good will it do to my readers?
When I my self haven't got what I wondered?
Yet I roam as a wanderlust,
Full of hope like a bag full of dust,
Wanting to go, yet one more step,
To knock once more, hoping the door would crack.
But what if it cracks?
Who would be behind it?
Will she be there?
Or will it be a ghost?
Or worst a reflection?
Me holding a candle of my own failed resurrection?
Hardik Vaidya's Other Poems
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The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
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