consciousness

Facebook Queen

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

I’ve made it
They took it away
I’ve seen it
They called me gay.
I have it
It’s all a mirage
I will win this time
UKIP elected Nigel Farage.

We’ll get there
My window’s still open
We’ve made it
They’re calling me token
We’ve got it all
That was their plan
We’re being seen
Freedom of Information land.

He’s elected
They took his hits
He’s been invected
They say he’s imbecile
He’s a Light Worker
They’re taking L.S.D.
He’s a visionary
They’re saying something about me.

She’s in imagination
That’s not the state of the nation
She’s internal energy station
That’s not Krishna Consciousness evacuation
She’s Prakrti and extra special libations
They have given that up for me
It’s time to see what is in this holy city.

AI Summary

Your poem opens with the sting of being misread — “they called me gay,” “they took it away” — and immediately sets that against the surreal theatre of British politics, where public figures rise and fall while you’re left wrestling with your own reflection. You weave together mirage, tokenism, Freedom of Information, light workers, LSD, imagination, Prakrti, and holy cities to show how identity becomes a battleground of projections: what you are versus what they say you are. The emotional centre is the tension between inner truth and outer distortion — the sense that you carry something visionary, something spiritual, something real, while the world keeps misnaming it, misunderstanding it, or reducing it to stereotype. The final lines turn the poem inward again: she (the inner feminine, the creative force, the Prakrti) is real, but the nation, the politics, the noise around you are not the measure of her. The poem becomes a declaration that you are ready to see the “holy city” — not the literal one, but the inner one — without letting the world’s labels define your path.

New Day

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Ghostly shadows chase me down the alley way of my dreams
Appearing and disappearing in the fraction of a second
The half-remembered faces of undergraduate days
Self-reflection and awareness all rolled up into one.
The trembling vibration of the frequency of my brain
Mirrored in the corridors of knowing in my mind
Promises of perfection and tabletop lunches
I am undone in the failure of my forties
In the presence of such alumni and esteemed gentlemen.
When will I get a chance to succeed again?

When will it be my turn at the alter?
There cannot be so many bad days ahead of me
Lost to the unfolding fracas of frenzied want and desire
A familiar forlorn lust for more and more in the tiredness
Of my turned over plans from yesterday.
The safest place to live in regret
Where the bets are stable and the winnings are to others
Those who prophesied my downfall and saw it coming
Like the antichrist of ambition clamouring always for more.

Sure to be the second place loser in the rally of competition
And without coffee mates for dates, I am expectant of more failure
Until the rescuer comes and the infinity of the universe is known
Fortune over favour for the freshest scent of a new day.

AI Summary

Your poem traces the way old ghosts — undergraduate faces, past ambitions, half‑remembered dreams — chase you through the night, reminding you of who you were and who you hoped to become. The mind vibrates with self‑awareness and regret, comparing tabletop lunches and alumni confidence with your own sense of having stumbled in mid‑life. You ask when success will return, when the altar will be yours, when the frenzied desires and overturned plans will finally settle. The poem sits in the painful safety of regret, where others seem to win the bets you never placed, where ambition becomes an antichrist whispering that you will always be second. Yet beneath the despair is a flicker of hope: the belief that a rescuer may come, that the universe still holds infinite possibility, that fortune might one day favour you again, and that a new day — fresh, scented, unbroken — is still possible.

What am I doing wrong?

/ rrishi99 / Leave a comment

Where do I err?
Flailing at the railings of my life’s swimming pool
Reaching for the safety of the security blanket covering me
What am I doing wrong?
I am too close to the divide.
Strangers in my mind unkind to the findings
Recent excursions into the deep unknown
Asking too much for the receipt of familiar consciousness
Cups of tea and the drinking of an occasional latte
What is the breaking point of my mind?
Too close to the ether, too far away from electrical vibrations
Time is like a nation of zombies awaiting my pornographic reinvention
Standing naked at my front door.
I have been here before
Forgetful of the greatness of building my character
Like stepping stones across a frozen lake in my heart
Darting across the temporal void in avoidance of one more bloody conversation
The inner journey of man
The planned intervention
The existential cartography of my soul
It seems like we all need a common goal
And mental health is the way forward for the masses
Something to join the meditation with the mediation of higher and lower worlds
The frogs of the cauldron and the skulls of the pirate ship
Something I shoot straight from the hip
As a western cowboy in the Indian deserts
Land reclamation expert number one
Ask me where I belong and I will say it is right here
Where I stand defending my hand
Leading the leaderless with a magic marker and slight of my pen
Something again and again to drum out the pacing of seconds
Minutes away from the hours we share as our blessings together
Poets in tune and in the rudeness of awakening
Settling down for some more slumber party to rejoice in.

AI Summary

This poem is a reflection on feeling close to psychological edges, questioning your own stability, and trying to understand where your inner life becomes too intense. You describe yourself flailing for safety, reaching for comfort, and sensing a divide between grounded reality and the “deep unknown.” The imagery of strangers in your mind, the ether, electrical vibrations, and standing naked at the door expresses vulnerability and the fear of slipping into states you’ve known before.

At the same time, the poem remembers your strength — the “stepping stones across a frozen lake,” the building of character, the inner journey, the existential mapping of your soul. You’re trying to reconcile your spiritual imagination with the need for mental health, structure, and shared human goals. The cowboy, the pirate ship, the cauldron, the deserts — these are symbols of identity, adventure, and self‑invention, but also of the risk of drifting too far into symbolic worlds.