Mirakee
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.
Nothing.
And I regret it.
©tokillabibliophile
tokillabibliophile
tokillabibliophileblog.wordpress.com
Avid reader, whimsical writer. :D Insta @curiosus101
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Smile
I like how words sound,
Rubbing against each other,
Slowly,
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 -
Lyrical Loss
I.
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.
II.
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.
III.
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 -
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 -
Alizeh
Today,
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?
Today,
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
Today,
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 -
Denial
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 -
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 -
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.
People.
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.
People.
©tokillabibliophile -
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.
Pulled.
Tripped.
Bumped.
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.
Someday
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.
Today
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 -
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.
Clearly.
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.
©tokillabibliophile
