Quotes and poetry by tokillabibliophile

A Composition of Clichés

Meet me
On a forked road made of words
In an alley full of silences
And tender, stormy nights.

Meet me
And let go
And hold back
And walk along
And say things
And sparkle with sadness
And twinkle with joy.

Meet me
And run slight fingers
In light crevices
In slow, whispered calls
Under silver moon.

Meet me
And let it thunder
Like sounds melting
And hearts rhyming
Like smoky strokes
And lost hopes.

Meet me
Here.
There.
Somewhere.
Between past and present.
Beyond space and time.

©tokillabibliophile

tokillabibliophile 136w

Fade In

1:
I am sick.
Not in the way you might think.
Not in raised temperatures, runny noses or rumbling stomachs.
Just in cocktails of orange madness.
I have trudged upon myself long enough.
Long enough to know that it is not the end game.
Long enough to realise that something noxious brews in the folds.

2:
I am good.
I'll talk about myself.
I don't care whether it finds its way down slippery slopes.

3:
I own this.
I own the cathartic relief of my being.
I am red in the eyes and ticking inside.
Like a bomb on the brink of a suicide.

4:
This is the day when I see the throbbing in my veins.
This is the day it threatens to pop fire and melt the lanes.
I can't see these words anymore.
They morph through my closing eyes, yellow and sore.
I wish you could see.
I wish you don't have to.

©tokillabibliophile

tokillabibliophile 137w

To Be Honest

This day is melting slowly
Like summer heat on empty clotheslines
And I look in the distance
For orange and red lines
Smoking around the lost horizons.

Bubbles devoid of sunsets
Are meant to be burst
Releasing their colours on the canvas of time
Lost like the grey skies and white lies
Hidden beneath animal skins and broken bones
Slowly making their way into blinding blue lights
Half laughs
Wholesome nights.

I walk around sand and silence today
Melodies of salt and sea bursting through the deafness.
Silences can be piercing, you know.
Like words, only sharper
Like regrets, only stronger
Like life, only longer.
.
.
.
©tokillabibliophile

tokillabibliophile 143w

Usurper

I wonder when my life became
An entangled mess.
Must have happened when
I started feeling things.

I should heat the mess.
It'll melt then.
Into a liquid concoction.
Seeping slowly away from my soul.
Hot and sticky and golden and purple.
Like the stubborn phlegm of existence.

Then shall my soul clear.

Crystals shall make their homes
In the spaces between the crossing blue veins
Crackling with warmth
And pouring more mess.
Hot and sticky and lovely and wonderful.

©tokillabibliophile

tokillabibliophile 143w

Aftermath

Sometimes, it feels strangely empty,
this pool,
which was full of sparkling water
just days ago.

These strings that tie us
wind round and round
inside me.
Cutting on the insides,
bleeding on the outsides.

Sometimes, it feels strangely black.
Like the color,
only darker.
Illuminated by lost stars
that lose their diamonds
in the blankets of time.

These words that scratch my soul
fail to wound deeper,
deeper,
the way I want them to,
spiralling slowly,
like a knife
into supple pink flesh.

Sometimes, it feels strangely peaceful
like a bird in free flight
only that I have no wings
and I am headed
for the bright earth.

©tokillabibliophile

tokillabibliophile 147w

Threads and Scissors

Mum says I look sad all day
Moving back and forth
On an auburn rocking chair.
Looking out a solitary window
I don't seem to smile
Or laugh
Or chuckle.
Not at all.
Just one leg dangling about
Breathing in the sunshine.

Mum says I should try to laugh more
Like normal people do
And I want to tell her
That I don't feel like it
That little things prick me now and then
That my heart beats faster when I look at a ringing phone
That I would rather be alone at all times
And that the wandering hole in my soul
Expands like the steamy seashore.

Instead, I wind myself like a baby
Around the auburn rocking chair.

Mum says I don't tell her things
Things she should know
But what would I tell her?
What do I say
Of hurt that doesn't even come close
To the world that she slays.
What do I say
When I don't know what's swirling inside my head
What do I say
When every word ignites a world
of gaps and regressions and hard times.
What do I say
When all I can do is listen to her.

It is time to leave.
My auburn rocking chair is empty now.
Soaking in the sunshine alone.
Little specks of dust shining like stars.
It holds my ghost
And rocks back and forth
Waiting for me to say,
"Mum, I'm okay."

©tokillabibliophile

tokillabibliophile 148w

Layers

Enough about me.
Tell me about you.
How you feel
And how you live.
And how you survive not knowing.
And how you chose things you shouldn't have.
And how you face things you are afraid of.
Tell me about you.
About the things between heaven and earth that ail you.
Things that you don't tell others.
I'll hide it within my words
And the world
won't know a thing.
©tokillabibliophile

tokillabibliophile 149w

Shame

Once upon a time,
there was a little boy
in the no man's land
between normalcy and bonkers.
Clingy and whiny,
his eyes darted nervously
every time his mother left him alone.
He had a fear.
Of not being able to make it home on his own.
Of being abandoned forever,
cold and alone.

Wheels spun,
clocks ticked,
and time went by.
The little boy was little no more.
His reflection was hazy
with the dirt of constancy.
He saw grey more often.
Understood it better.
But he still cowered behind the fear.

As things change,
but never really do,
his fear was a boggart now.
Every time it swam up to breathe,
He would cry Riddikulus to dim its scream.

Every now and then,
As the blues turned black and insane,
He could not wave his wand right,
Nor could he cry out loud and clear,
And ridiculous as it may seem,
Riddikulus was always an illusion, O child dear.

Memories of certain days haunt him
And that's all he ever looks at in the corners of his home
Where silences are judged for the lack of expression
When silences are anything but that.
Shy is the norm of the day
with his nerdy glasses and slight smile
When you don't know the monster
that hides behind those eyes.

He wishes sometimes.
Only sometimes.
That someone would realise
That the lack of words
Are the intent of a long forgotten time
Seeping through his veins incessantly
That there are things he might say
and that he might smile bright.
And that he might talk and talk and talk
Instead of write
and write
and write.

©tokillabibliophile

tokillabibliophile 149w

Into Oblivion

Have you ever thought of things
in the wee hours of the morning
when the sky is grey and purple
and streaked orange on edges
with an impending sun
Have you ever thought of why you can't sleep
or the theory of your long-lost dreams
as the birds twitter amidst trucks and speed-breakers
Have you thought of the constant nervous firing in your head
of how it becomes too much to bear
and how all you want is to sleep for so long
that there are no suns and birds and dreams
that the world turns
but you don't
that the sky falls
like cotton on your head
that the red light in your room
is your only constant
and everything else recedes
slowly
slowly
exactly like a dream
which you won't remember anyway.

©tokillabibliophile

tokillabibliophile 150w

Trickling Times

Someday, try writing just for the sake of it.
Just put words together
Like beads on a string
And cut them loose
Watch them spill onto pavements
Rolling into nothingness.

Someday, try writing because you don’t want to.
Just spill ink
As much as you can
And hang the parchment out to dry
And scratch it all out
Tearing the page until it bleeds black.

Someday, try writing because you need to.
Just the lyrics of misery
And for a split second
Forget your limits
And the things you don’t yet see
And spill your guts out
Till you tremble and scream
In pain
In poetry.

©tokillabibliophile