rozina Nov 11
They say less is more.
Well I say less is a giddamn bore.
How on earth can anyone live with just a
few things? Just a few things in order to
achieve maximal happiness, apparently.
Well, according to them anyway.
They see it as freedom and a joy inducing thing.
I see it as quiet the opposite.
An empty room with stark white walls
and a simple plant for decoration
and hardly anything more,
but just a sad and lonely clothes rack
with a few clothes
in white
and in black.

Sadness,
lack of emotion,
personality
and creativity more like.
This isn't what life's about.
I don't want to wake up to empty walls
that are brighter than the sun.
This empty room
was apparently supposed to be
a giddamn bedroom,
not a ****** hospital room.
Why on earth would anyone want their room
to look like it's been stolen from the
local hospital somehow?
How can one live with such a small amount
of clothes and get on with their day?

The minimalists must have some sort of
superpower.
A power that I probably will never achieve
in me own giddamn lifetime.
They must not get tempted.
At all.
They must walk into a shop
with a straight face,
devoid of emotion,
probably dead inside,
dressing up like they're going to a funeral,
not like they're getting their giddamn
groceries or anything anyway.

They're probably vegan.
Good for them, I suppose.
They probably walk into their local supermarket,
and only come out with
a couple of almonds,
five apples max,
and some bananas, unwaxed.

The probably hate people like me.
The loud.
The eccentrics.
People who wear all of the colours under
the sun.
Ones who simply want life to be a bit
more fun.
The ones who are simply themselves and
love a good pun.
The giddamn maximalists for crying out loud!
The ones who are willing to stand out
from the giddamn crowd.
Probably the ones with their heads in the clouds.

The minimalists,
they must frown upon the people like me
because we might be too creative
and loud
and eccentric
and too much fun
and expressive
and too different
for them.
It's almost as though
they can't cope
with the world and its colours
and the people who make it happen.

How on earth can less be more?
Tell me, you monochromatic people.
Are you even human?
Or are you just a giddamn robot?
How do you manage to live such a
monochromatic life and not feel
empty on the inside?
Tell me your secrets.
Actually don't.
I don't ever want to be a monochromatic
person ever.
Not even when I'm 90 years old.
Not now.
Not ever.
I never want to be a monochromatic
person,
another faceless member of society
or a person who lives in a house
the size of a shed
simply because they thought they used
their head
in the right context
although living in a shed
seems like a giddamn dread,
you can just about fit a bed
and some gluten free bread
under your giddamn bed
in your house the size of a ******* shed.

Just a PSA
I'm not intending to write a whole
academic essay,
I'm simply having my own say
that minimalism must simply make you and
them feel nothing
BECAUSE THERE IS NOTHING TO *******
LOOK AT!
How can they be happy by looking at
a stark white wall? How?
I mean, they could always use their own
giddamn imagination, but it's not really going
to last long, now, is it?
What do they do for fun?
Walk somewhere because they don't even
own a ******* bicycle,
because according to them, it's clutter.
I bet they don't even own own a block of butter
because that too is unnecessary clutter
and probably deserves to belong in the gutter
along with that nail cutter
and what I mutter and utter
and probably assume that I'm an absolute
******
because my house is apparently full
of clutter,
although it isn't.

It's full of colour
and history
and prints
and patterns
and it makes you feel things
rather than just nothing.
That small toy car on the shelf
survived through the second world war
and still stands proud.
That wallpaper with the paisley prints
has been on for the past fifty years,
but it shows emotion and personality.

I am and always will be a maximalist,
and nothing can change that.
Nothing at all.
They can guilt trip me.
They can convince me to get rid of
half of my things.
They can force me to get rid of my
prized possessions because according to them,
it's all clutter,
but to me,
it's what makes me who I am.

When one walks into my house,
they will probably look and admire at
the things I own
in order for them to get a sense of
who I am
what I do
what I listen to
and all the things that go on inside
my mind.
It is a loud machine that doesn't have
an off button.
I bet the mind of a minimalist is the
opposite and is a sensible one, with an off
button, or maybe not, but that's just
what I think anyway.

When one walks into a minimalist's house,
they will probably look at the blank walls
and the clothes rack with a few
monochromatic clothes
and that houseplant sitting sensibly upon
the table top
and will either feel at peace
or will probably start feeling empty
as the room they're standing in is as
empty as the minimalist.

So, while they say less is more,
I say that less is a bore
because it is
because living a monochromatic life
must be so much fun now, wouldn't it?
Just throwing the individuality and eccentricity
and creativity away like it's nothing.
There's so much out there,
so embrace it.
Embrace the expressive
and the creative
and the eccentric
for they are full of life
and couldn't care less about your
****** "less is more" motto.
How on earth can less be more?
Logically, how can less be more?
Think about it for a giddamn second.
Less can never be more. Ever.
So I tried being a minimalist a while ago and it didn't turn out how they made it out to be, until I realised that I was never made to be a minimalist and that I am, and always will be, a maximalist.

I mainly wrote this because the idea of living a minimalist lifestyle scares me and kind of makes me feel empty if you get what I mean.
rozina Nov 5
Nothing to see, nothing to do,
nothing to look forward to.

Observing others living life to their fullest,
and feeling as though you're the dullest.
The things you used to enjoy
slowly become a distant memory,
and you don't know how.

Existing slowly begins to feel a chore.

Wake up, go to work, stare at a screen,
go home, stare at yet another screen,
sleep, repeat.

Everything slowly begins to lose its
colour, as the world as you see it
slowly turns to shades of grey and
muted tones.

You don't feel yourself anymore,
the things you used to love become a chore,
to do them with love and passion again
suddenly feels like folklore,
where in the days of yore,
they didn't seem to be a chore.
Now they do,
and you don't know how to
make them not feel like they're a chore.
You slowly begin to lack emotion and
begin to wonder
if there even is any point in doing
anything anymore.

Contemplating the reasons for existence
becomes your most favourite past time.

Slowly, but surely, the pieces come
together, like coincidences, and the
realisation hits.

You begin to get tired of feeling nothing
all the time, though for most, this isn't
always the case.

You begin to get tired of feeling nothing
all the time and being ignored,
so you speak up even if you're shy,
not wanting to cry,
of living a life so dull and dry.

You slowly incline your head,
trying to resist the temptation of going to bed,
wishing you were dead.

You doodle during that extremely
boring meeting,
not caring if anyone bothers to judge
those silly little doodles.
You do them again,
out of habit,
slowly gaining your mojo and **** for life
back.

The upbeat songs come back,
so do the memories.

You embrace those,
and you don't let any old grump stop you,
because they should embrace them too.

Emotion is injected back into you again,
you tap your pen in quick succession,
to keep up with the rhythm of the song.

You gain a sense of flow,
you gradually begin to know that things
will turn out okay again.

Not immediately, but sooner or later.
You're no longer a dull hater,
life has just gotten one inch greater.

You don't think about heading to bed,
wishing you were dead,
because life seemed a dread.

You incline your head,
and observe your surroundings with
fresh eyes,
not uncontrollable silent cries!

You get the swing of things again.

The things you used to love are no longer
a chore,
the days of yore
where all that was just folklore,
was actually just folklore;
it's no longer a chore.

The emptiness is replaced with emotion,
the absurd sense of humour creeps back in.

Boom, you're your normal self again,
although you don't know what normal
actually is.
You no longer have a care in the world
about this normal that they all speak of.
For feeling empty
can just make you be another
faceless citizen,
blending in
with the rest.

You don't want that, do you?

You aspire to be the best,
with the feeling of being blessed,
and turning up in your best dressed,
without feeling the judgement at its best,
the anxiety goes to rest,
and you're at your best.

You skip happily,
while others walk with a blank expression.
You're the injection of colour
into the grey and glum world.
Others scorn at you for being different,
you happily embrace the fact
that you're that way.

Instead of wishing you were in bed,
thinking you'd rather be dead,
because life seems a dread,
you're ahead,
using your own head
whilst others are unknowingly spoon fed.

You're no longer a miserable person,
but one who stands out,
beaming,
others internally screaming,
hoping to convince others to do the same,
whilst trying to stay relatively sane
to avoid unwanted fame,
or worse, fearing the cane,
whilst also trying to stay in your lane
to avoid the blame
over something pretty lame,
like setting your old rickety computer up in flames,
because you felt like it
and didn't care one little bit.
It's not the shortest poem in the world, so brace yourself.
rozina Nov 5
Follow me to the ends of the world,
now why don't you?

Stalk me and follow me all you want,
because you'd rather follow the crowd
than to forge your own path in life.

Follow the trends that everyone's doing
because you can't think for yourself;
you only follow those ****** trends
just to avoid being seen as a
frowned upon ******.

Follow me because you might seem lost;
I'm also lost too, so I can't help you.

You might follow me because you want
to get back on track, but you keep
falling off it;
you simply don't know how to keep on it.

No one does.

You're lost.
I'm lost.
We all are.
The last thing you want to do is to
follow me...
I'm not convincing you to actually follow me on here, but you can if you want; it's simply the name of the poem.

— The End —