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@the-idiosyncratic-saga
Do you ever see double when your mind is lost?
Why is loss always about choices?
Time an enemy eternal
Loathing is deepest
When forcefully spent
Spend pieces of life sparsely
Give pieces carefully
Some day you may become a collectible
To someone who holds all the pieces
They may preserve you in mint condition
Inside a glass box
Unchanging, preserved and quite dead
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Coming back to familiars
After being an unfamiliar
Looking back after looking away
Intensity after callousness
Is hard
Sometimes returning back to love is hard
Lifting burdens is hard
But being a burden is hard infinitely
What if the love you have lost is self love
What if you are returning to your own soul after caging it?
Your potential is disgusted with you
Your own mind judges you
Your own soul an enemy
Can you still return?
How do you make it up to your own self?
Maybe reset like a computer
Maybe switch myself off and on again
By jumping off a bridge
Hoping in the next life my soul will be amnesiac
Is that why I teeter at the edges?
Is it the only way?
One day I may step off the edge
And find out if my soul forgives me
âPeople come and go as they please. Thatâs a fact. And thatâs why we have doors - so we have a say in who we let in. We should have mental and emotional doors too. Because when something is a fact, and when it plays out, you canât blame it on people. You can only blame yourself for being ignorant. But my lifeâŚI have never had a door. Itâs one of those door-less offices that are cool and inclusive and non-hierarchical. Because I donât judge and I donât think Iâm better than anyone and I always try to make people feel good about themselves and encourage them. I let everyone in my home and my heart. And you know, some people are kind. They leave their shoes out in the corner and bring me plants and scented candles. Some others always bring takeout and wine and we have magical nights. Some help me fix things around like that lop-sided stool and that chipped wall. They help me without demanding acknowledgement but thereâs gratitude anyway. They also have their home and their goals so they go on their way eventually. I like those people, and they know they can come and go as they like. Then there are those who bring in their muddy shoes and keep their feet on the coffee table and leave the wrappers of chocolate right where they ate them. But you know what? Iâm okay with them. Iâve dealt with a lot of lazy, clumsy and selfish people in my life. They arenât even the worst. Iâll tell you the ones that are. They are those people who come in and tell you how to live your life and run your home. They change your kitchen arrangements and paint your pastel blue walls black and kill all your plants and burn all the books. And for the longest time you donât even see whatâs happening. How they are overpowering your thoughts and beliefs, how they are being manipulative in their dealings. And when one of those lovely people from earlier come along inside with freshly baked bread happy to see you after so long, they are horrified to see whatâs become of your lovely home - whatâs become of your lovely disposition. They try to put some sense into you and you know they are right. When you gather the courage to ask the unwelcome guest to leave they tell you that youâre nothing without them and that your home is better since they came in and fixed it. That night you sleep not sure if they will try to murder you in your sleep. But they do worse - they drug you and leave you in some stranded place and you just canât find your way back home, you canât find your heart or your soul. You walk around shoe-less and aimless and thoughtless and numb. Thank god for those lovely people who help homeless people. Because if it wasnât for them, youâd probably fall into a ditch and just stay there until death came for you. Can I let you in on a secret though? No matter how grateful you are to them, you have to leave their home at some point. You donât owe your newfound heart or hope or life. Just remember that as you build your next home, you build a big, sturdy door with a peephole and a few locks. Donât stay shut inside forever, no. But please always see, wait and evaluate before you decide to open and let another person enter. Have a password maybe - whats the question? I donât know but if their intentions are earnest and their heart is sincere, they will know it even if you donât.â
â Iâm in the process of building that door. Itâs wooden and will be covered in vines and flowers. But it wonât have a doormat. // 21st April, 2020 @creatingnikki
Thinking of a great idea and forgetting it is a pain like none other
In the meanwhile
We live in a paradox, Of orthodox Our blessing and curse, Are but one, You are mine, As I am yours
The picture of your smile, Keeps me sane When I am driven insane By pain But the picture of your smile, Makes me scream When I can only dream Of walking with you for miles
Living, now, is, Not more than, Mere reminiscing Exhausted memory, My hidden treasury Constantly on loop, Heals and wounds, Drains and charges, My spirit
Stretched thin, At polar ends To be or not to be To hope or to despair To move or to wait To yell or to be silenced To settle or to fight In day and in night In the past and the present Present everywhere, but here Besides you or far away, Who knows where I live? Not here I know Constantly pulled at, Torn and yet alive Who knew You would be my savior? And I yours?
Is waiting also living? For I have never felt more alive My soul lives and dies Every second Yet revives when I feel you and see you Within my own self Am I quite mad? I squeeze Every last drop Of us To live on From the mess of my mind
Drugged always, On memory and hope Only reality Of a life with you Will save me From a wasteful death You saved me once Godâs will, Will you save me twice?
But if you cannot, Do not despair For being saved once I have lived a thousand times You, my love, Can keep me alive, Even from exile In this meanwhile With only the will of your love
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Secrets
Walking on the street, I try to connect To thousands Who walked before me
In old libraries, I stroke spines Of books Written by dead souls
Sitting underneath an old tree, I ask questions Even though I know the answers
At home, I stare at the wall Refusing to believe The reality
So I sit by the sea, Asking for mercy Of a secret That refutes reality
Lying on the grass, I hope for the stars To tell me A secret of the past
You will never find me, In front of a screen Looking at the present Or for the future
I will be always, In a world gone by As I do not belong In this one
Time, Tell me the secrets, And show me Your beginning
Star-crossed
The shine in your eyes, Comes from wise tears You know better Than to fumble in this maze
The shine in your eyes, Reflects our first night It was a starry affair In the darkest of nights
The shine in your eyes, Sparks my soul Yes, I recognize you From a thousand years ago
The shine in your eyes, Shares secrets of your heart Though your lips are sealed With a forbidden kiss
The shine in your eyes, Makes promises That you will never fulfill But ones I will always hope for.
The shine in your eyes, Is why we get caught Torn apart, Now with broken hearts
The shine in your eyes, Dies And with it, So do I
But, I would do it Again and Again and Forever.. For the shine in your eyes
Fear
I woke up in sunlight Glitter hits my eyes One foot in front of the another I trudge to the mirror Look at my face Skin and the zen Why am I? has replaced Who am I? From means to end Unknown to known Perseverance to result A damn poor result
The struggle, the excitement fled Cue the birth of Bills responsibility and fear Oh fear above all Truth slammed into my face Hardening wrinkling my eyes Light of kindness burnt out Fuse of compassion blown out Death of eyes, windows to the soul Lost the way to my soul
I wish I was near To finding a solution But instead everyone here Is dead to all resolution War hate and jeer The way of the world now Ainât easy being the odd one out Was supposed to change the world Now am fixed within Roped by my own tears How do I wipe The smears of grief From faces black white and brown
In this world of the entitled bullies Shining eyes, purposeful steps Secret dreamy smiles With bright wings have flied To a universe uninhabited Leaving behind a body of fear
But today again For the 6869th time I smile my fear away The expression creating feeling Creation reversed Taking a page From the book of this world I bully my fear again But in a dark alley Made of tears and blood We will rendezvous Every midnight
Corporeal
Clothes strewn about Empty teacups Reminders on the fridge Photo frames on the wall Sear and tear my heart
Gnawing on the memory of Your quiet smile and wet hair
Time tricks me Moving me from Happy feet walking at midnight To sunlit parks and joined hands On wooden benches
Imagination and memories Blur Making me forget Where I am
I cross borders everyday But still stay in your arms Shunning reality in your eyes
Walking in the fog, I Naturally stumble into you And even when the sun rises Our fall and the fog Settle in and infect my heart Like the sweet sharp stab of cold
Every night I shed my skin And crawl into yours My body dead While my soul sparks
I confound mirrors They see you As I stand before them
But I still want to be Corporeal Even if, only in A Photograph Collecting shells, Watching The sunlight play And the wind run In your hair Our eyes laughing
Turning love into hate is the cowards way out of a broken heart. I love you. And Iâm not a coward
Ranata Suzuki (via wnq-writers)
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Under the Bridge
We hold hands Our friends blush Who cares about bands Only, the rhythm of heartâs rush
We walk in circles I watch your eyes Their immaculate mischief Potential always kills
Before meeting you today, I combed my hair thrice In the mirror, my nervous eyes Watch my lips give the pep talk twice
I have been meeting you For everyday Of the summer But winter is finally here
We have been toasted raw The bites of skin The salty taste of your mind Your flavor on the tip of conscious
You have tasted my cruelty Broken being the reality In illusion, The real us unites
Abandoning character, Temperaments spark In the flame with the blue tinge We link core to core
Raw beauty has never been In ugly rawness The horror of broken psyches unfold Where our love resides
Ugly love Of temperaments imperfect In the winter of society In pretense is beautiful
I want to shed away The pretense Eye contact We walk away from your friends
Under the bridge, We never hold hands Only taking bites of skin and sins Tasting cruelty and frailty of our minds
Under the bridge today, As the flame dies We welcome winter With a renewed contact
Collapsing reality Transcendence of illusion Fleeting truth of the burning candle Is the dangerous love I hold for you
Your lips moved over mine as a bow gently caresses a violin. We brought compositions to life. We created music.
Make the sounds follow you into the night of the days we spent together.
In music we find Expression and separation The music of two in unity Moving towards and against Like fingers on a piano
The Rocking Chair
The clothes are in the dryer Is the only thought Even though my skin is on fire Still I rock rock rock
Three times I tap My foot before I enter the room But the eyes never bat
Eleventh wash Finally peels The skin from my hands Regeneration at dawn
Every rebirth Intensifies My urge to die So I count one to sixty five
Two dawns ago The soapy bubble Makes my hand burn I look in the mirror and run
In the mirror The lice crawl in my hair My skin A brown crumpled paper bag
On the other side Of the mirror The woe of the toddler Helps me remember
With faltering first steps, Her head held high She looks unto The doll with unrestrained anticipation
From the unblinking eyes Of the perfect doll Disgust pours out And drowning, We shriek
So I lock my babe With the doll Run up to the attic In jubilation Since then, I rock rock rock
Muttering under my breath The names of US presidents Hearing the babyâs cry I laugh
Now I know, The rocking chair Much like me Is obsession and compulsion at once
The clothes in the dryer The baby dying of hunger The rocking chair obsesses One two three four five Compulsively, we rock rock rock.
The Violinist
I never liked nose rings But it goes well With your Platinum soul Though tale of rage society sings
On the swing set Your airy laughter floats The shriek of fear when your long hair Is caught in the chain bemuses me to no end.
You walk without a sound Elegance dripping like from a swan Carrying my books to class As my feet declare war with the floor
A creature of beauty Forced to be of strength I see the scars That convention branded you with
I see the sheer surprise In your eyes When you see the love in mine Are you never to be assured?
Now on the stage Your nervous fingers on the strings But your eyes steady on mine My love rises like acid in the throat
Gulping it down, in Revenge I love your elegant conscience Your strong Platinum soul Leaving behind the bearded muscled jock
Unreactive and dense Not losing toughness in ductility Beautiful precious silver skin Transcends Masculinity
Tense idiosyncrasy Transitions music Graceful androgyny Empowers every metallic soul.
Marry a man who doesn't read.
Marry a man who doesnât read literature. Or paint works of art or make music. Marry this man for he is as safe as his spoon fed television with predicable plots, canned laughter and happy endings.
Meet the man who doesnât read literature at a trendy happy hour where you toss your hair like youâre flirting and he buys you a âSauv Blanc.â Size up his income by the watch on his left hand and decide heâs the one.
Go home with this man his place but ignore the scantily clad bookshelf that contains titles about successful habits and good to greatness and how to use chopsticks for these, not a haiku collection, mark success. Have sex on his black leather sofa and claim you are girl that never does these things and he must be special.
Let him take you to dinners at fashionable places where you order the salad with pine nuts for protein and fat free dressing on the side. Listen to his dream plan of corporate ladders, season tickets to the niners, and how he hopes to settle down and buy a place in the suburbs and take care of you while you pop out children with his DNA.
When you tastily lick your cabernet glass clean, suppress the urge to deplete the bottle, coat your throat with meaty red and dive into artistic drunkenness. Stop. Let him pour you water. With him, youâll stay proudly sober and never spill wine and spew run on sentences with emotional frenzy. Learn to put your fork down after your salad and not beg for dessert so he knows youâre restrained and will stay slim forever.
Stop using overcomplicated words, Sartre quotes and hedonistic references to âThe Playaâ. Get you teeth professionally whitened to hide signs of midnight cigarettes and afterhours espresso and take up grown up things like Pilates and lunching.
Let him propose with a perfectly formulated solitaire that weighs down your left hand with a permanent ache. On cue he says âitâs not a blood diamondâ from a African country youâll never visit and you smile and cry as if this were your biggest life aspiration.
Get married in a church with bridesmaids in dresses that match your flower arrangements and walk down the aisle in perfect beat to Here Comes the Bride and suppress all desires to jump on the back of someoneâs motorcycle and escape to Mexico to let your hair stream wild in the wind.
Buy a house together that has bedrooms for your future children and is near a specialty grocery store with organic deli meats. Let moderation beget moderation and settle into a predicable pattern than makes your parents finally stop worrying. Rent out your one bedroom condo where you thought youâd once die alone with 12 cats and three hundred books. He has saved you.
And days turn into months and months turn into years and eventually heâll get sick with a preventable disease and youâll wheel him in his chair and feed him mush and wonder what would have happened if you choose the man with the cheap watch and velcro wallet.
Donât Fall in Love with a Creative.
Donât even give him a second glance. For if you succumb, youâll never be safe.
Instead you will ride the waves of passion and despair, never knowing when each will end. Youâll become an addict to drama and a skeptic of the conventional, unclear how your chaotic patterns could ever formulate a linear life progression known as the American DreamâŚeven though sometimes you secretly covet it if only for a chance to breathe normally.
Donât fall in love with a writer. Heâll haunt you from the first day you meet with brooding eyes and dark hair and a T.S. Elliot paperback neatly packed under his left arm.
Youâll meet him at the one remaining wifi-less coffee shop and heâll quote existentialist writers to describe the moment until you leap over your foamy cappuccino to kiss him violently because nothing is more seductive than a man who appreciates syntax.
Donât fall in love with a writer because he knows great love stories have tragedy and the best are killed off or at the least cast aside and and he says goodbye to his favorites as easily as he sips his black coffee.
Heâll teach you that monogamy is a word for young adult novels and life is so much more complicated filled with chance happenings and twisted plots and unwanted surprisesâŚ.some named Jolie, his assistant. Youâll have heartbreak so great youâll cower on your floor for three days. âIt just makes a better story,â he says.
The irony of a writer giving you a clichĂŠ.
Donât fall in love with a painter. Heâll lure you with temporary adoration when you meet at a two bit gallery opening and heâll woo you by asking to paint you nude. You nervously agree (how conventionally unconventional, you think) and enter his easel of a house and fall into soft vulnerability as you stand near the sun soaked windows allowing your stomach pouch from too many chocolates to be beautiful. He commits your body to memory as his brush traces the outline of your curves in perfect silence. For an instant you are his muse.
Heâll teach you how to see things differently like how moths wings shimmer at dusk. When drowsiness tickles your forehead heâll say âSleep is for the dead,â and youâll traverse the streets making up your own constellations. 3am will become a delicate strand of a spiderweb, glistening in the moonlight with its fragility. You want to gulp down the moment in a frenzy as because nothing was this good ever and you fear its impermanence so might as well get crazy high on each secondâŚ
And then the moment is gone, the blue phase over and another has begun.
Donât fall in love with a musician. Youâll be a groupie of his genius lyrics and soulful strums but youâll always be second to his art and his public for his job is not a job but a passion that torments his soul like a cancer. Which is why you love him.
Heâll play at odd times and introduce you to odd people and odd baggies of substances that keep your eyes wide and heart racing and in the morning you always wonder what the hell happened until you put your head in the nook of his shoulder and feel safe like a small leaf on an oak tree until the music starts and you once again become the second fiddle.
Ah yes, donât fall in love with a creative. Heâll desperately need you then not need you at all and the pain from this very matter of fact statement torments like the beat of the rain on your single paned window.
And you may never marry because thats too traditional and you may still die alone under your books with cats eating away your eyeballs. You ride the waves unknowing how this passion endures or your life unfolds. And you wonder if it had been better to date an illiterate man with a nice watch instead.
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Ophelia
The subject of the object Or the object of the subject Hamletâs lover, a puppet A Nihilistic None
Mad woman in the well A drowning death An expectancy Of centuries five.
Swim up Ophelia Or climb out Disappoint not The awaiting feminists
A ragged wound The guilty conscience The peaceful seance Ophelia, be the heroine
If thou cannot climb, Be a ghost Haunt the stage blind But Ophelia, release the bind
I will not mourn thee yet Because I know thee not Bring Shakespeare to life Your identity he can write
If he refuse thee, Shed thy white gown Adorn thyself in black Together, we shall mourn femininity
Ophelia Ophelia Ophelia Be the puppet but pull the strings Kill thy masters in Words words words
On this modern stage I shall wait for thee When you come, You will no longer be Ophelia
For I shall write thee as a Pirate Saving Hamlet, or a Jew Thou shalt live eternally In the death of Ophelia
Ganges
Everyday they yearn. And Everyday I yearn. It is The way of the world; To Yearn for the forbidden.
Yamuna, always blue with envy Whispers to the Taj Mahal, His fame of love is nothing To my Divinity
Saraswati, though almost a Goddess, Yearns for my Divinity. Does she not know? I claim all and own none.
My existence, A debt to humans. He laughs, At their plight and mine.
Humans, my masters bow and pray And give me their loved ones; Joining hands and praying, Committing blasphemy in prayer
All I yearn for, To Not make promises of Wealth, and child, and happiness, They are not mine to give.
All I yearn for is Peace, To Not be burned with incense All I yearn for is one Prayer, For our Creator and not me.
