tokillabibliophile

tokillabibliophileblog.wordpress.com

Avid reader, whimsical writer. :D Insta @curiosus101

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  • tokillabibliophile 134w

    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