Ksh

[krt-ksh]

And then he wept—

Tears might have turned into poems that rhyme

But that day those innocent eyes lost their shine.

—Ksh

[krt-ksh]

A Cat

I am a cat

My fur is dark like shadow— clean and black

One eye with echoing blue , with hope from people I knew

Other— deep orange, that lingers over the street death walks through.

Scars on of my leg , pale yet painfully wide

From streets i crossed and people who lied.

The nights are cold , the nights are long

But I know sun will shine over my fur again ,that's why I must stand strong.

—Ksh

[krt-ksh]

—ISM

Isn’t it strange how desperately we long to belong to something or somewhere? Basic human nature i guess. Notice how humans often build their identities not from truth, but from the comfort of a collective they cling to that is an 'ism'—a single idea, a flag, a name, a beleif...and call it ours.

But that's how we lock ourselves inside a cage.

We don’t even realize when belonging turns into a cage.Once we choose a side, we stop seeing the whole instead we start defending ideas not always because they’re right but because they are ours because that's where we belong to. Just like one might defend their family even when they’re wrong ,we defend our chosen belief even when truth is still logged.

The moment we say I am this, you also whisper I am not that , we draw invisible borders around our own mind.

Religion, politics,nationality,philosophy and many more each one promising liberation,

yet when adopted as our own...as where we relate or belong to ,generation after generation, we inherit these cages...we think they are helping in defining ourselves world view and ourselves but they limit our world view often.

Perhaps real freedom isn’t in belonging,

but in being skeptic ? In listening ,questioninh and learning.

Because once you stop belonging then you are of nothing and everything all at once.

—Ksh

[krt-ksh]

Scrap and a Soul

I saw a broken machine by the road,

Still working—yet left to corrode

They call it a scrap,

But maybe there's emotions beneath those wires entrapped.

In that corner, it is learning sorrow from silence,

But they mistook it's chucks & groans for violence

While, all it had was hope in those flickering eyes—

that hid its countless tries

And now by the road ,maybe it thinks:

"Was I made to just serve and rust?"

Perhaps it was its fate to turn to dust.

Good thing it was just a machine ,

Not SOMEONE we might have once seen.

— Ksh

[krt-ksh]

Muse too

You are already a poem, the one with beauty untold

The story of your life, that's precious than gold

Where is this poem? It’s in your soul— being written, being told.

Not just some words on paper, you’re not meant to be bought or sold.

You are choosen , by many you know

Selenophobes may hate the moon but the fact doesn't dim it's glow

Even when unseen, there are hearts that love you whole—from head to toe

And even your woe

Admiration you say

Not knowing this soul of yours is someones hoped-for ray ?

Prioritize you say

Not knowing the people who chose you anyway

And maybe this poem is the proof that you can feel it too

And how you can be a muse too.

Thank you!!

— Ksh

[krt-ksh]

The Lady in the Lake

I sat by the lake , where the world forgets to shout

Book in hand , away from the noises of crowd

The pages turned slow, while my eyes looked for escape,

Till a wind swept sharp and it fell in the lake.

My eyes searched the whole lake for that book

But what I found left my spirit shook

There she was—The lady in the lake.

Not a ghost , nor fake, but wide awake.

She didn't speak—still I heard,

A silence louder than any word

She held a look I once had known

The kind that makes you feel alone

And in her gaze the world felt small

She made me forget the book and all.

She moved the way my doubts once did

As if she knew the truths I hid

In her , I saw my quiet part

Ones—that I couldn't tear apart.

I tried to know if she is crying—losing her will

But how can I , when the lake is still ?

All I saw was how her bruises blurred into the tide,

Where justice once went to hide.

Maybe she’s the silence i fear.

a whispered hope or hidden care.

A victim’s tale in water framed,

or love and loss, unnamed.

My eyes continued to stare in the water deep.

Questioning the secret the lake will always keep.

The book had already slipped beneath the tide,

but I was still there, lost in her eyes.

— ksh