Why is it

Why is it, things feel incomplete sometimes
though everything you want is all around

Why is it, the call of unknown feels exciting
though the daily routine is no less satisfying

Why is it, the soul itself feels restless
though we try to lure it to favourite things

Why is it, the need of creation is so potent
though the work I do is no less important

Why is it, that I feel the urge to write
though it is more a need than a habit

Why is it, the emotions swing like a pendulum
though that doesn’t mean they are in equilibrium

Why is it, that I cannot find a suitable ending
though there are still more questions pending


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