Avid reader, whimsical writer. :D Insta @curiosus101

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  • tokillabibliophile 12w

    5:47 am

    As the bells from the nearby temple ring through the barely arisen morning,
    I find myself thinking of regrets.

    Chances I didn't take with a recourse to practicality.
    Chances I did take only to see them fall apart in front of unhelpful eyes.
    Probably the only thing that is truly your own is this feeling.

    The bells are rhythmic. I wonder if someone is ringing them with bare hands. Must have loads of practice. A lonely truck passes by now and then, only to become a privileged man's motley muse.

    What is it about this morning that blinks so sleeplessly by?
    Maybe I should not inflict this upon the world just to get by.

    The bells have stopped ringing. Maybe they got tired. Maybe they didn't ring it as long as they were supposed to. I guess it's fine. No one is listening anyway. Except me. And you.
    Birds are chirping now. I used the cliché so that you could relate. Can you?

    There are points in life where the chain of reason breaks apart.
    Life, you, give in to impulses you thought were meant for lesser minds.
    You realise there is no lesser mind.
    All of us are lesser than our minds.

    Chains of reason. How ironic. Reason is supposed to free you.
    Clasp it tight enough and you are chained again.

    That's not why this is a terrible wound.
    The reason it is one is because it does the same thing for you as it does for me.
    And I regret it.


  • tokillabibliophile 21w


    I like how words sound,
    Rubbing against each other,
    Curling like embers in warm fires.

    When you chirp like a cricket,
    And burst into flames,
    I like how these words roll out,
    Like hot cinnamon buns,
    On rainy days.

    It's not just that, though.
    Sometimes, these words go away.
    Traveling their own path,
    Into a wishing well,
    Up chilly mountaintops,
    They leave me alone and cold
    On some cloudy days.

    But they come back,
    Candles in dark corners,
    Sometimes, they stay.

    It's as they say,
    Sometimes, words are all you have,
    Sometimes, they fall short,
    Sometimes, just sometimes, strings are not silky.

    Sometimes, words are all you have,
    Sometimes, all you have is not enough.


  • tokillabibliophile 29w

    Lyrical Loss

    I have not run out of things to say.
    I might have run out of ways to say them.
    The alignment of stars and cloudy skies,
    Ruins of blood and bones and lies,
    All lie about strewn in a string of silence.
    It broke.

    I don't want to talk to you
    Because you expect me to pour out my depths in a basin of white
    While I wet my feet forever at the rim.

    I don't want to talk to you
    Because it takes a moment to make promises
    And a lifetime to regret them.

    I don't want to talk to you
    Because you live in a world where people need each other
    And I live in one where acceptance still eludes me.

    I don't want to talk to you
    Because where you come from, happiness is in the little things
    But where I am, happiness is a little thing.

    I don't want to talk to you
    Because, you see, I never run out of things to say
    But you could run out on me.

    I hate this verse as much as I hate myself
    Spinning around webs of lies and words of solitude
    I hate that I gloom away my prime
    I hate that I can't see the simplest knots in my stomach
    I hate that I can't bear sunlight.

    But as much as I hate myself,
    I am my own being
    This angst of youth shall pass
    And I'll be peaceful
    soon enough.


  • tokillabibliophile 74w

    Rainbow Ink

    This moment, it tastes of bitter coffee,
    Warm and coarse,
    Like a lover's kiss under a starry sky,
    Like a planet revolving in slow motion,
    It feels like charms and dreams,
    Running through threaded strings,
    Like hot melted chocolate between your fingers,
    Smooth and sweet and free.

    My life is full of unfulfilled fantasies,
    Of getting out and walking the streets
    Of strange conversations with known strangers
    Of stories, death, hurt and patience,
    Of a silent sideways smile,
    Of new worlds every mile.

    I would if I could, I tell myself very often
    I would if I could.
    I would live my sparkling wines,
    My starry skies,
    My seashore walks,
    My windy sidewalks,
    My hot roasted corn in speeding trains,
    My warm blankets and books and rains.

    Instead, what I do is run away,
    From things, words, people,
    Overwhelming myself with noise on the outside,
    Drowning out screams of eternal lies.
    Sometimes, a pen and paper is all the kindness you save,
    Sometimes, you've got to bleed to cave,
    Sometimes the blood is black and blue,
    And sometimes, that's enough.
    Sometimes, it's a splash of red,
    And just like that, my dear,
    It's not enough.


  • tokillabibliophile 77w

    "Alizeh" - Wind (Persian)

    Read More


    It takes me a power cut and 4 nerves
    To realise how far I have come
    In lands, words and silences
    As unreal merges into my reality
    I never stop and stare
    Afraid of what I might find there
    Because it's easier to jump off a cliff
    When you have a blindfold on
    You might just never reach the bottom
    But is it easier to justify too?

    As I await a storm,
    Listening to songs I never really understood before
    I see how words are the same
    But the shapes become strange
    When your prism becomes a rainbow
    And they crest and trough like waves
    By rocky seashores and grey storms

    I sit alone
    In my own head
    Realising I have not come as far
    As I thought life had taken me
    The rains have changed, no longer stormy
    The sea is puddles now
    But the water is the same
    The solitude is the same
    My head is in my head now
    My silences have changed,
    But I barely walked.


  • tokillabibliophile 95w


    My mom tells me I'm heartless
    And I have always said yes
    With an angelic smile on my face
    And a mouth that betrays my name

    My mom tells me I'm heartless
    For I do not sift through debris
    And have the emotional range of a jellybean
    That comes in one color
    A soft grey tinged with indigo sheen

    My mom tells me I'm heartless
    Because there's a hollow where it should be
    And it disgusts her
    Because it's filled with crimson
    Clotted and jagged like a creamy red velvet cake
    That's clearly seen better days

    My mom tells me I'm heartless
    And I never once doubted it
    Because I don't think there is anything to a heart
    My bloody hole is enough for life
    And my bloody hole is enough for death
    And my bloody hole is reason enough
    To not have any reasons

    My mom tells me I'm heartless
    Because I do not feel
    Because I read words to make believe
    And that's all true as well
    I'd rather burn pages into my eyes
    Than watch a burning sigh
    Leave a life

    My mom tells me I'm heartless
    And I have always said yes
    With all my heart.


  • tokillabibliophile 98w

    Inside Out

    A misfit
    I'm the sad friend of the sad friend
    Who I am not friends with
    But good enough to be tagged in black and white photographs
    As a sidekick of sorts

    You'll see me etched into iron pillars
    Between the hearts and suicide notes
    And you still won't read my name
    Because I meant it that way

    But if you see closely
    Very closely
    You'll find a name there
    Written in black ink and blue blood
    The name's yours
    Sadly, I fooled you again

    I'm just the sad friend of the sad friend
    You don't know my name
    Nor should you want to
    Because if you did
    You would wish you didn't

    A misfit, it seems
    I took a paper today, and purple ink
    And placing them side by side
    I took a swill
    Let my name spill
    Off the skewed quill
    Only to see
    That there isn't any
    Just white paper,
    Purple peace
    Slow and still.


  • tokillabibliophile 105w

    Something or the Other

    I like walking
    on dusty roads,
    under dim yellow lights.
    When twilight hits the spot
    between days and nights
    I listen to long lost melodies
    and songs which remind me of things.
    Things about people.
    It's so breezy today, so beautiful.
    I can't stop thinking about people, things.
    How I wish I could.

    I like walking
    on darkened roads
    full of dry earthy leaves
    with holes in them
    in a wooly jacket that's seen better days.
    I like the cold, but hate the chill
    that runs down my spine
    every time the clockwork reverses
    on its own gears.
    I hate it.

    But I like walking
    down winding streets
    and narrow alleyways
    and find corners
    within corners
    and hide myself
    and people
    and things
    and I sit with them
    once a day, twice a day, hundreds of times
    under dim yellow lights.
    When twilight hits
    I sit with them
    and strangle them
    and nurture them
    and think of things
    and people
    and things, people, things, people, things.


  • tokillabibliophile 123w

    A Good Friend

    One day

    I woke up one night.
    Strangled my roommate slowly.
    I slept off again.
    Woke up in the morning.
    Hadn't dealt with the body.
    It's blue and bruised and still.
    So utterly still.
    Like a baby devoid of a care.
    Stuffed his gaseous existence in a black bag.
    Threw him under a tin shade.
    A black log under silver metal.
    So still.
    I could feel his blue turning to black.
    The maggots bit his eyes off.
    So still.


    My room is empty now.
    The sun shines through the solitary window.
    The dust swirls about in concentric circles.
    The books with yellowed pages smell of vanilla again.
    The wind tears about through lost corners.


    It's been days.
    The weather smells of moist earth today.
    The weather smells of pastel grey today.
    The weather smells of frayed edges today.
    I walk out in the impending storm.
    The tin shade holds a crumpled black bag.
    I peek through my half open door.
    My room isn't empty anymore.


  • tokillabibliophile 125w

    100 Degrees

    I'm tired of putting out fires
    Without knowing how to start a hose
    The rubber dwindles in my hand
    And I can't look at it anymore.

    I can see it.
    It is orange and purple and a shade of satan.
    The flames, they bask on the fringes.
    Playing silently with my fragile hinges.
    Licking and lying.
    Like a deed waiting to happen.

    I venture into my home.
    I can see burning beams
    And melting glass
    And charred memories
    And ash and bone.
    I can see the scales I shed
    The warm sensations I hid
    It's withering.
    Like an old rat's skin.

    I am tired of putting out fires.
    And the moment it exhausts itself,
    Some bastard launches off with another match,
    Fiddling with it,
    Turning slowly in a knuckled hand,
    This tiny apocalypse with a future of dust,
    And throws it on the fuel of my sins
    That I saved for fiery volcanoes and the rustle of trees.

    Now that my room is gone too,
    I can be out in the open.
    I have nothing to save my fires.
    Except that there is too much water.
    And now I drown.
    And I realize
    I'm tired of breathing underwater.