God Complex

On the first day there was silence

The second day, there was God

The third day came the humans

But by the fourth, we forgot.

On the fifth day came the Holy Ones

We crucified Adam and Eve

The first born son on the sixth

We buried our prestige

Deities came and went, and on the seventh we remained

We erected the temples

Our bibles maintained

We worshiped the wind

We worshiped ourselves

We worshiped outsiders

Wrote books for the shelves

We forged our own chains

We dug our own graves

Locked the sheep in their cages

We were the slaves

God.

The Almighty One.

It is comforting, is it not, to believe that someone else is in-charge of your destiny? That a mystic force up there can wave a magic wand and miraculously make it all right?

God is dead, said Nietzsche. God remains dead, and we have killed him.

Weren't we the ones who created God in the first place? Hasn't the concept God since time immemorial always been to comfort our own selves that we could rely on something bigger than our puny bodies?

We are specks of light in this dark abyss and sometimes, hope falters. The weak ones need a cushion for their broken dreams and a comforter for their desires when their efforts weren't enough. We are too full of ourselves to even CONSIDER taking full blame for out actions.

"It was luck. It was ill-fated. Maybe GOD meant it to be"

What sort of a God would let his son be crucified on the cross?

Yes, faith shatters. After all, wasn't Christ the biggest scapegoat in existence?

What sort of a God would take away your loved ones?

Where was God during the Tsunami? Where was God during the destruction of Japan?

Did he feel that perhaps his children were being too naughty, so they had to be rebuked?

What kind of a God deems it fit for child molesters and rapists to breathe the same air as the innocents?

God is in the T.V. God, is in our head. We created him, we appease him, and we killed him. It is the end of times, grab your prayer books everybody because you're in for a rough ride. Narcissistic and broke, our mirror images become reflecting deities. Subconsciously, we loathe our hedonistic traits, since slavery was a trait drilled into our heads.

So we punish ourselves, and dear old Dad in heaven gets the blame.

How many of us can truly confess to seeking God WITHOUT some demand in mind?

How many of us can honestly say that the last time we prayed, it was unselfishly?

As humans, most of us are flimsy excuses for mankind. Devoid of emotion and empathy, clutching rosaries made of the skin and bone of others toil.

The true believers are the ones so deluded in their search for this higher Power that they isolate themselves from us doubters.

And of course we have the preachers, the propagators, who make God their business, making a pretty penny while manufacturing brainwashed sheep at this factory of fanaticism.

God is a crutch for the weak. A beggar, who comes up to your car, will always ask for a donation in "God's name" He doesn't care for the blessings of your "God", all he wants is some money.

So, do I believe in God?

No.

But I am not opposed to the idea of a true force that unites us all, coz after all, I am only Human, and Hypocrisy is injected in my blood. I admit, the idea of being all alone in this vast universe, is terrifying. So I seek answers, so I question and offend people. All in the hope; that maybe someday, I may be able to answer the questions that keep me awake at night.

But then, it is never polite to shove religion down the throats of unwilling masses is it?

Original Individual - A Poem

Originality, in my view, should be a religion in itself. The religion of the free thinkers, where everyone is a star. Why do we allow ourselves to be labelled and put in boxes?

Are we soup cans?

We have the potential to reach for the stars we look up to, hell, even BECOME those very stars, emulated by millions.

It's all about recognizing yourself and finding your true potential. Be what you wanna be, the only opinion that matters is your own. Don't disgrace yourself in your own eyes in a futile effort to be something you aren't.

We're all fallen angels, molded by the hands of our Father.

Anyways, on to the poem -

I see the beautiful clones

Their rusted hands

The landscape is all but one

Blank and grey, everything's the same

I scream at the sheep

Grab the masses by the throat

Original, individual, I say

Give me something new

Let the spectrum shine through this washed out palette

Break free of your bonds of uniformity

Conform, but only to yourself

Show some color, ignite the spark

Of your overworked soul

Give me a diamond, in a mountain of stones

Original individual, be yourself forever

Narcissus awake from your enraptured slumber

See how unique you really are

Unlock your potential with a skeleton key

Of Moonshine and Goodwill

Original individual, starstruck now or never

Till next time,

Ciao,

Taksh

I Feel Sorry For Your Scapegoat

We are the Lambs of God, sent to slaughter. Society and WE as humans, are never ready to face consequences for our own actions. I sincerely suspect that the concept of God was brought about so that a "divine force" could be blamed every time a human died of his companion's fault. We don't want to take the blame, so we find others to dump our follies on. The creation of scapegoats is just as fast as the blinking images on T.V. and the media turns us into a bloodthirsty mob in the blink of an uninformed eye.

We are sheep in the skin of humans, we demand to be led. Led over the precipice, over the horizon.

Mob mentality.

It is scary. The force of a thousand people, scream for blood in unison. I was very much inspired by Shakespeare to come up with the concept for this poem, which is somewhat of a continuation of my song Mob Mentality. (more of that on Facebook)

Read on!

Gothic angels seek to kill

Burning crosses seeking thrill

Murder and aborticide

Spread your wings and spread them wide

Vengeance seeking sheep so loud

Throw the scapegoat in the crowd

Puppets moved out by the master

Revenge is sweet when death comes faster

Blinded by their arrogance

Masses in a cryptic trance

Mobscene when we voice our thoughts

Brains in space like astronauts

The head count's more intellect is less

Such a manic, moody mess

Piper please play for the rats

Your sound will guide these sightless bats

Then the strings are pulled by Father

Bring the axes Mr. Logger

Peasants bound by King's decree

And anarchy shall set them free

So yeah, these were my thoughts, be sure to check back next week for a totally unrelated post thingee =D

Ciao,

Taksh

Love - A poem and a short ramble

Cracked faces

Burnt places

Crooked smiles

On crocodiles

A spectrum, one sided

A fate, undecided

And we look for love thats lost

Stone cold water

A drowning daughter

A broken heart

That's played its part

A maiden forlorn

A young lad who's gone

And their story forever covered in frost

When cupid had lost its faith

Then shall appear a potent wraith

Freeing love

Nurturing the dove

With a crooked smile

Like a crocodile

And alive will be their faust

Love. What a fickle emotion. It comes and goes, and on the rare occasion that our heart DOES settle for someone, disaster seems inevitable. Keeping a relationship alive and breathing takes WORK and cupid is never there with his handy arrow when needed.

Love is an emotion which stands tall on the delicate porcelain base of trust. All in all, it is a poorly balanced equation, leaving me wondering as to how it has stood the test of time and is still standing.

How do people not see through the rosy facade?

Fairytales don't always come true. Most of the times, Beauty is met by an actual beast and she becomes a grisly reminder of how easy trust cracks.

But still, Love is an amazing idea that I never tire obsessing over =D

By the way, "faust" is Latin for Luck

Till next time

Ciao

Taksh

Beauty, Gouge out the glass eyes

Beauty.

It's a very subjective topic.

Beauty, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder. Looking beautiful has a different meaning for everyone. However, we the people, are stuck in this never ending quest to find beauty.

To capture the elusive aura that is perfection. It is one thing to be concerned about your looks, however it is a totally separate matter to obsess over the opinions of other people.

We destroy ourselves in an innate effort to look good, to be perfect.

Layers on top of layers - Mascara, blush, eyeliner, eyeshadow, lipstick, lip balm... it goes on and on.

Vanity is not found only on the runway.

No.

Vanity is the guy standing in front of a mirror, taking hours to fix his tie, telling himself it is perfect.

Vanity is the teen, spending an eternity on his hair, telling himself it is perfect.

Vanity manifests in our reflection, after all, self depreciation is an art form rarely practiced.

Tears, giggles, blood sweat and ink. The pictures say it all. Our world is truly a dark one. Nothing ever actually fades away, nor does it leave a mark permanent enough. We burn all the good things to warm ourselves on the embers.

Asphyxiation.

Silent suffocation under layers and layers of false promise while anguished souls try to clamber out. THAT is society in a nutshell. Mechanical humans who love you when the limelight is shining. The moment it turns to someone else, "poof" go your dreams.

You are an untouchable.

Being different is like signing your own death warrant. We are young and we love it. We contort our limbs, twist and turn to be able to fit into the box society wants us in. It is the era of irony. We humans proudly wear the labels our peers assign to us, all the while chanting "I'm unique, I'm unique"

It's a funny world. Funnier so, when placed on a paper platter to be dissected by millions of people per day, who laugh it off and shrug, "That can't be me, I'm unique, I'm unique"

Niko Von Monroe - A Biography Of Sorts

Being a Gemini, alters to my personality come pretty easily to me. It is pretty simple to separate my thoughts and feelings from one mode and switch into third person view, to see my situation objectively... To be able to write as an outsider. This entry, previously on Facebook, came from a darker time, almost as if Jekyll wrote about Hyde.

Enjoy!

Sshh!

Shut up.

Can you hear it? This is the sound of the walls coming down. Taptap tapping away on a keyboard.

Isolation is a guilty pleasure. He types from a different perspective so that he can distance himself from the pain.

A thousand voices.

A thousand faces.

He feels it you know. He isn't made of Teflon. An empty carcass, bloated and lacerated. Drained of vitality.

Devoid of emotions.

Shell shock

Lived by the book. Pinpricks across the skin. Razor sharp kisses across his heart.

We understand. You are not to blame, even as you pushed him towards the precipice while he lay there broken.

It was clearly his fault.

Provocation

Red nightmares of a blinding white insanity. He writes while the world around him crumbles and falls and he is buried in the chasm created by the relentless taptaptap of the keyboard. It takes one to know one.

A bullet in the brain. Aching to escape. Mumblings through a wired jaw.

Speak up or the crowd won't hear you.

They need answers and you are the one scapegoat.

He hides his flaws.

Overkills.

Overcompensates.

He hates himself for being unique.

Masochist

Acid green fetish doll. Painted up nice and pretty on the guillotine. The blade drops and there is silence.

The roaring mass got what it wanted.

Blood.

Demons feast till the end of time and martyrs are created by unfortunate accidents. The brave ones fall and their remains are the gruesome trophies of a time gone by. A battle well fought.

Blood and guts for the winners and the losers lick their wounds with salt. Shallow opinions thrown at survivors while the corpses of the fallen draw admirers like flies.

Irony

Plastic blue suffocation till the everlasting Christ bleeds dry on the cross. The sin grows back and he screams for temporary solace. Smooth porcelain talent like flawless marble.

But an esteem easier to crack than candied glass.

Silver streaks in the thunderous clouds, because he rains on his parade.

Confidence like butterflies, it comes and goes.

He is an incubus, for gods that haven't quite left us yet. Raised in a putrid womb of metal so sterile, air so toxic that he gave up and decimated his desire to survive.

"Singled out in a hateful crowd, over and over again"

He screams while the desecration of matters holy and pure commences. The harness can only support him for so long. After that, it becomes his undoing. The leather bites into the skin while the metal sears his soul.

A broken toy, with artificial intelligence and a taste for self-destruction. Incarcerated. Evacuated. Left to die. He picks himself up and brushes it off;

Only to resume the taptaptap on the keyboard, till the eternal flame consumes him on the cross.

Quick update

Okay, so for who ever is reading this, my ONE reader out there, I am pleased to say that I am ready to start updating my blog weekly :D

Yeah, and I'm gonna be promoting it like crap on all the social networking sites too! :D

Plus, I am shifting all the notes I wrote on Fb, to here :D