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Lokendra Singh Poem
I never knew when poetry became my passion
I never knew when my passion became my profession
I was a person who could not write a letter
But love made me the poet without a question
And nostalgia is making my writing skills better and better
Certainly love broke my heart
As it is doing since antiquity
But my poems reaching to every part
And touching every heart
Writing poem gives me a kind of tranquillity
My effort is let tears not come in anyone's eyes
My eyes know what a torrent comes everyday
When any heart gets broken
Let my poems be a sun rise
And dry all the weeping eyes
May they Bring hope and light every day
May not a single heart, break again
Copyright © Lokendra Singh | Year Posted 2016
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Lokendra Singh Poem
While going away from you these thoughts came impromptu
I love you my lovely chicku
Your purity and purity of holy fire are akin
You are the most cute and innocent face I have ever seen
I can listen to your jabbering gibberish more attentively than any discourse
You are my happiness's unfathomed source
From now on I will breathe in two bodies
One is mine and another is yours
In stories I have heard that some wizard had her life in a parrot,
but my life is in you
I love you my lovely chicku
I am a poet
I can untangle the most sophisticated subjects without destroying its efficacy,
but I am unable to understand the analogy of this bonding and intricacy per se
For which all words are insufficient Going away from you means- Subterranean trickling tears, pangs in heart, an uneasiness ineffable.
Copyright © Lokendra Singh | Year Posted 2016
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Lokendra Singh Poem
Sadhguru is like an infinite space
Anyone who is receptive can feel his grace
He is the greatest amalgamation of
Ancient and modern knowledge
He knows very well how to free the bird
From the cage
He breaks our shackles of belief
He gives the people who are weary
From the worldliness-a relief
He moves like an air
For all living beings, he cares
A quintessential among men
He dances in the rain
He is fully involved in every activity
Whether delivering discourses or playing cricket
To infinite knowledge he is the open gate
Others are Gurus
But he is Sadhguru
Copyright © Lokendra Singh | Year Posted 2016
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Lokendra Singh Poem
Life's beauty is hidden in strife,
For contrast alone gives meaning to life.
No darkness, no dawn,
No battle, no crown.
No winter, no spring,
No cage, no soaring wing.
No rain, no bloom,
No silence, no tune.
No fear, no courage,
No risk, no voyage.
No fire, no gold,
No spirit, no soul.
No doubt, no belief,
No sorrow, no relief.
No loss, no gain,
No clouds, no rain.
No longing, no art,
No end, no start.
No depth, no height,
No struggle, no flight.
No war, no warrior,
No front, no rear.
No life, no death,
No whisper, no breath.
No mud, no lotus,
No roots, no focus.
No pain, no poetry,
No heart, no melody.
Poetry isn't just about rhyme and flow,
It's the rawest truth the heart can show.
No pain, no poetry—not just a notion,
But the soul’s deepest, truest emotion.
Poetry is born from life's deepest wounds,
Yet it blooms like a flower in suffering’s ruins.
Copyright © Lokendra Singh | Year Posted 2025
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Lokendra Singh Poem
When I am with you,
words melt like sugar in tea—
too sweet to hold, too warm to grasp.
The verses stop on my tongue,
because you are the poem my heart has sung
But when you’re away,
ink spills in your absence,
lines flow like longing,
stanzas stretch like empty arms,
and every metaphor
becomes a bridge back to you.
You are the silence between my rhymes,
the rhythm I try to catch but cannot keep.
With you, I need no words—
without you,
I sink in them.
Let this be the quietest way
to say I miss you—
without saying it.
Copyright © Lokendra Singh | Year Posted 2025
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Lokendra Singh Poem
When an author gets published
His happiness may be compared
With a mother's happiness
Who has just given a birth to a baby
After nine months pains and troubles
In carrying it in her womb
When an author gets published
He is as happy as a beggar
Who is told that he is a king
When an author gets published
He feels as a spiritual seeker feels after
Getting an enlightenment
When an author gets published
He feels as a mountaineer feels
After climbing a mountain
When an author gets published
With that
Many more works begin
It gives him unending motivation
As there have never been a single writer
Who had written only one book
One published book inspires him
To write another
And that book inspires him
To write one more
Thus the writer's journey starts
With his first book
But never ends till he breaths last.
Copyright © Lokendra Singh | Year Posted 2016
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Lokendra Singh Poem
Don’t save anything for someday—
because someday is a slow thief.
It steals in whispers,
in heartbeats you don’t count,
in the space between "I should" and "I'll get to it."
Soon, the tea turns cold—
the warmth you craved fades to memory.
What once was rich, sweet, alive...
now tastes like regret.
Sitting.
Soon, your fire fades—
that spark in your chest?
it flickers...
then dies.
The dream you once burned for
becomes just another "what if"
buried under dust.
Before long, the day slips away—
the sun you meant to chase
dips behind the hills,
and you’re left standing in the dark,
asking the night, "Why did I wait?"
Before long, people change.
The child who once reached for your hand
learns to let go.
The laughter that once filled your home
becomes a memory you strain to catch.
Before long, people move on.
The voice you meant to call tomorrow?
Silent.
The hands you meant to hold?
Just photos on a dusty shelf.
Before long, life passes you by—
not in a storm,
not in a shout,
but in the quiet ticking of moments
you thought you had forever to use.
And then...
before long becomes too late.
The chance? Gone.
The door? Shut.
The song you never sang?
The poem you never wrote?
Stuck like a stone in your throat.
So I ask you—
what are you waiting for?
The clock’s not ticking for you.
It’s ticking against you.
Don’t save anything for someday.
Write now
Speak now.
Love now.
Dream now.
Move now.
Live now.
Copyright © Lokendra Singh | Year Posted 2025
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Lokendra Singh Poem
I’ll stumble.
I’ll fall.
Again.
And again.
But hear me loud—
I rise.
Not with ease… but with fire in my eyes.
I’ve tasted the dust…
Felt the cracks in my soul.
But breaking?
No.
That’s not my role.
Let the night try to blind me.
Let the shadows pretend they own the road.
But I —
I am the lamp
that burns bold…
even when the wind screams no.
As long as this heart beats,
As long as lungs pull breath,
I’ll stand.
I’ll fight.
I’ll defy even death.
Destiny may dare me.
Try to bend my spine—
but I’m carved from the promise
that I will never decline.
Struggle… is not my enemy.
It’s my identity.
It’s the soil where my roots grip deep.
It’s the vow that won’t let me sleep…
until I’ve climbed—
until I’ve shined.
Don’t quit. Don’t hide.
Struggle is life walking right by your side.
So walk on,
with steady stride…
Because success?
It’s just waiting
on the other side.
Copyright © Lokendra Singh | Year Posted 2025
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Lokendra Singh Poem
In the quiet of the night,
a whisper moves.
A spark lights up—
soft, sudden…
like a muse breathing fire
into the dark.
The day has faded.
Only shadows now.
And the wind
takes its flight.
Somewhere,
a soft orange glow—
a place where hidden feelings go.
Twilight sits there, still and slow.
Numb…
but aching to be known.
Above,
in star-filled skies,
an attic waits
with a long, quiet sigh.
And a poet—
hand trembling, eyes wide—
reaches out
with ink-stained dreams.
A pale moon rises—
soft, tall, glowing.
It doesn’t ask.
It only whispers:
“Let go.”
Midnight poets…
we write when the world is sleeping.
We are
as free as falling leaves
caught in autumn vines.
Our words?
Like spells—
biting, healing,
yours and mine.
We are web-weavers
of sleepless pages.
We speak with no voice,
just ink.
Blind hands tearing night from day,
spilling dreams
in messy, beautiful lines.
We don’t need food.
Just ink.
Just words.
Just this fire in our chest
that never quits.
We burn through pages,
break pens,
bloom in places
no one else sees.
We whisper to the unknown.
Eyes closed.
But everything…
everything is seen.
We build worlds
from nothing.
We escape
by creating cages
made of rhyme.
We have no friends—
just ghosts in our heads.
We are the ones
no one understands.
Midnight is our kingdom.
And poetry…
is how we rule it.
So if you hear this
and your heart feels it—
Maybe I’m not just talking about me.
Maybe…
I’m talking about you.
Copyright © Lokendra Singh | Year Posted 2025
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Lokendra Singh Poem
They called him Narendra first—
a boy with fire in his heart,
a mind that danced with stars
while the city slept in the dark.
His questions shook the ground:
"Where is God? What is the truth?"
"Don’t give me words or songs—
I want to feel it in my youth!"
Then came the storm—Ramakrishna—
a saint who smiled at the sky,
and said,
"You want the ocean?
Then dive in. Don’t be shy."
And Naren—oh Naren—
he opened his chest,
let the universe pour in,
and was born again:
Vivekananda—
the joy of clear seeing.
1893. Chicago.
A hall full of suits and doubts.
They looked at his robe,
whispered,
"Exotic… maybe devout."
But when he stood up,
his voice shook the floor:
"Sisters and brothers of America!"
—and the silence roared.
Not just sound—
it was awakening.
It cracked the West wide open
like thunder on a sleeping mountain.
He spoke of Vedanta—
not as some book to fear.
He said:
"You’re not your body.
Not your pain.
Not your past.
You are the Infinite—
alive, free, vast."
And the world?
It listened.
But here’s what the textbooks skip:
He walked barefoot,
slept hungry,
with nothing but grit.
He didn’t chase fame,
he carried flames.
"Arise, Awake, and stop not,"
he said—
not for statues or shrines,
but for broken minds
still chained by caste,
greed,
and blind belief.
So what about us?
We share his quotes,
wear his face on t-shirts—
but forget what he meant us to be.
He didn’t want worship.
He wanted fire.
He asked:
"What’s your austerity (tapasya)?
What truth do you desire?"
Swami Vivekananda—
not just a man,
but a mirror.
Look into it.
What do you see?
A follower?
Or the giant
he knew you could be?
Jai Swamiji.
Now—awaken the giant in you.
Copyright © Lokendra Singh | Year Posted 2025
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