Other Side Of Sand Paper

Writing is liberating
Freedom to cry covered in ink.
To breathe air
Tainted only with semicolons.
Writing they say,
Sets you free.
Drives nails in your coffin
Cozy warm bed
Of words you bury in pages.

It is chainsaw arms
Hanging by your side.
Writing opens doors,
They said.
What doors
They never mentioned.

Writing makes breathing easier
When you inhale
Your own blood
Intertwined with air.
Writing is exhilarating,
Sucking loneliness
From the marrow of your bones.

Writing breaks your cuffs
Making you strong,
Changing you,
Transforming you,
Keys of life, that
Dangled from your neck
Now lie in a pool of pages.
Empty yet fulfilled.

Writing holds the door
Open for you,
In a crowded cafe
Welcoming you with stuttering vocals.
They told me all of that.

They never said
That again and again
Don’t tell your reader 
There is a body in  a well;
Show them the tears of his dog,
Still hanging by the door
Waiting for his masters decaying bones.

Writing lifts you,
From trodden ways
Of caves and cliffs
All bashed with blood and bones.
It takes you
From there to mountain tops,
Looking  o’er the valleys
Narrating anecdotes
And tales we,
You and me
Are too busy to hear
Forget to hear.

And they reminded me all of that.
And wvery other thing
That words fell short to tell.
They said writing saves you
But omitted the fact
That not before long 
It holds your lungs under water. 

It leaves sacred burns at your chest,
From crying too long
At the fall your own characters.

It caresses you,
Protecting your soul
From the aftermath of destruction.
Painted through cracks of baggy, caffeinated eyes,
You often look into
At 2 in the morning
Finding faults in syllables of poem
That your dreamy conscience gave birth to,
In narrow passages of papercuts.

It saves you
From the fall 
On the hard concrete pavement.
The fall; you were architect of.

Writing is empowering,
Giving wings to handicapped
Reminding them
That art created identity
And not the other way round.

The sandpaper that existed
On the edges of my bones
Now often caresses my words to sleep.
Words and poems
Will your heart
They said.

Forgetting to remind me
Words are the essence of broken things.

Copyright Akanksha Krishnatre

On Salvaging Creations

I bet you have dreamt of stars.
Walked the thin line
Between the super nova
And the raging black hole.
I bet you have
Blown kisses to dying stars
And cradled their life form
Just before the died.
I bet you brought life,
Wherever your toes touched
Or fingers fluttered by.
I bet you were born in nebula
And have since
Forgotten your price;
So you trade
Now dreams with the sky.
I bet you paint smiles
Only the colours
Evade the lines
Trying to remain outside;
Breathe before
Aspray of haphazard
White dots,
Connect them for eternity.
I bet you are one of them,
One of the white dots you paint
The brightest star
In your painted constellation.
I bet you name your galaxy
A paradox;
For the sheer irony of it.
For you are the creater and the living too.
I bet you cry at its end
Wreaking havoc
As it collapses on itself
Never quite realizing,
Your tears ended the skies,
One whimper at a time.
I bet you still dream
And the green hues
Have long since turned black.
You no longer have thin lines
But an infinity of boundless pain
Dying inside
Denser than time,
Sucking the marrow of your bones.
I bet you are stuck
In you black hole;
But don’t worry Creater.
I think you never realized
I bet the stars never whispered to you
That I
Am still there
To wake you up.
-On Salvaging Creations-
Copyright A.K. 

Neon Lights at Window Sill

Neon lights
Feed my fire.
And darkness still askew.
On lookout
From terrified
That still caress my veins
With licks 
Of thorns and dew.
Imprints I carry
Of lighted
Ombre death
In pulsing beats of breath.
I still kiss 
The roses, 
You left poisen laden
At my window sill.
At my death
The petals will fall
And thorns
Each day.
Nails will break 
And hair strewn
With glow
Of poison red.
Forgot the few
You gave,
As my soul leaked away;
And I still do
And drain my flesh
No different
From my crimson
But neon lights
In the heart of green
Are still at
My window sill.
And dying
And falling

Copyright Akanksha Krishnatre


Splattered rainbows
Adorn knuckles, with glint of broken starlight
Kissing past veins.
The places where,
The strangers fingers brushed past 
In a crowded hallway
And air smelled as dungeons.

The galaxies my palms
Fidget to cajole,
Pinpoint the shine of moon
The hurried handshake left
With a warmth glowing at its root.

The fingertips 
Hazel and lilace
Prints of colors that never go together,
Left at my shoulder
From the last instance
Some traveller held me;
To my weary frame;
As he struggled for grip.

The handprint
Of a hasty goodbye
Mumbled beneath breath
Itched at times.
Trying hard at times
To remind me of its owner.
A shy passenger 
That had travelled beside me.

Lips curled into a smile
At people
I had no recollection of sharing a moment with
And eyebrows betrayed my trust
At my own body
As they canvassed the crowd of familliar facades.

And the flesh and bone
I wear often upon my soul.
Have memories of people
I don’t remember faces for.

It often 
Strikes me as odd
 As I wonder
Quite often
How many people
Have I looked at all my life
And never actually seen.

 © copyright Akanksha Krishnatre

On Contrast In Existence.

Blended contrasts
Like those between your lips and eyes
Carried out on the blank canvas
Stretching past galaxies of confusion.
Your steps light
Faint hue of ombre
At dusk casted the blue void.

The pale freckles of gold
Exhaled at moments 
Demons adrift your lungs.
The starrynight 
With its enticing colors
A canvas of emotions
Painted past your windowsill.

Your grace
The narrator of a masterpiece
Madman breathed unto canvas.
Born out of saudade
And merak of celestial moments.

The search for yellow paint
Often ended in heartbreak
And organs 
Painted a faint colour of illness.
Closed doors you held
With keys long digested 
Behind your burning throat.

You read the letter he wrote
“The sadness will never go away”
Your lips trace the truth
Your bones often forget,
Casted in plasters
From the wordings of letter
That bid adieu.

The curls of lips
Those yours.
Send a fervour among lovers.
The one you know about
And the sighs unknown to you.

The painter tastes wine
In to the marrow of its bones.
As its eyes take you in
Drunk at the perfection
So within reach
Weighing dark desires
The replica of its orbs.

Naming your smile
More mystifying than Monalisa 
And eyes as deep
As oceans go.
Brushes fanned in welcome
Of perfection,
Your vinci stands afloat.

Your voice
No more than a bubble box
Adorned in comic scripts
With resolutions of loyality
As that of zeus,
Forgotten sometimes.

Shards of shattered mirrors
Form the entire of organs
The grace of stick figurine
You drown inside.

Intricate patterns
Veins carved into your flesh,
Fingers toiled with hair.
Those the replica
Of the finest china,
The grails your blood had kissed.

The colours a sordid reflection
Of your own ups and downs
Celebrated and touched
At occasions
That only blissful tears ever saw.

The soft sounds
Fading into nothingness
As your tongue
Traced your lips.
No different the way
Sculptor had traced
Patterns my eyes lie upon.

Chattering of teeth
With unfocused eyes
Breathing heavily
Uneasiness seeping into sound.

With likeness to echos
Of the teacup
Slipping slowly through 
Fragile fingers
With a clang to the wooden floor.

Bony knuckles
Clasp unto the marble bust
With an even strength.
Michelangelo reborn
And you his David,
Perfection in every form.

The edges of your ribs,
A blurry vision
Seeping into reality
Illusions created by delusional hands
The prints of a child
Who still dreams of wonder land.

You are a masterpiece
I murmur
As I paint flesh and bone
In colors that can speak
But monochrome.

And I will keep bleeding
Your form against pages
Until veins run dry
And ink betrays its course.

For darling
Though a Magnum opus
You are a still a work in progress.

Copyright Akanksha Krishnatre


And the blood leaks down your throat
Down my spine
Onto your clothes
Like the memories
We often hold on to.
And tears curve your heart
And leave distances in veins
Miles of trenches apart.
And the vortex of color

All hazy and twany
Blinded by the shades
Of your echo,
Slides off the spines
Onto my ribcage.
Crackling fire, with dragons in your breath
And gurgle in your throat
Spitting venom with each reply.

And your talons for fingers 
Caress my sides
Tracing marks of despair
Claws of nails 
Shred you apart.
Yet you stand intact.
Not shedding off 
The flimsy gown of human skin
You claim to wear all around.

And the folds of being human
Seem to hold loose pockets of skin
Dripping down the ragged breath.
The dip of knuckles
With clotted crimson 
Seeping down from your kisses.

Eyes blackened 
And skin ashen,
Crumbling to pieces
Hanging together with gums
Long chewed
And flavourless.

Chipping away at your bones
Snow pellets submerge my tiles
And no distinction
Between the marbles and bones
Could now fathom my eyes.

I sit down
Beside your sunken soul
And my fingers 
Try to search for yours.
As the skin mounted atop
Flutters away.
Dandelions in open air.

The talons have wept red
And eyes give way
To shade of night.
Hollowed out 
Carry the bodies of dead tears
In caskets 
Sunken deep.

And your body
Slowly giving off the odor
Of hopelessness
Slides down
Hitting the marble
With a gruff.

Solemn dexterity
And whisp of apathy
Resounds my voice
And words scruff 
Leave my lips.
Raining down
Upon your battered ears
And matted 

Having brewed that denial
With constant rebelion
From truth.
Mixed occasionally 
With false charm 
And decieving smile
The wine
You were working years upon.

Hatred and jealousy 
That appeared as soothing balms
On the greens of your wounds.
Often mistaken
For bites of pure bliss
Now sweetened 
The wine till it scalded your throat ajar.

Maybe besmeared
In your dillusions,
You forgot the phrases
The wise men uttered.
Poison only tastes like poison,
Once you have swallowed it.

Copyright Akanksha Krishnatre

Woman As Ghost As God.


I am woman
As ghost as god.
With vericose veins
Running behind her eyes
Travelling her body
Like a gypsy 
In search of a home.

Veins that are coiled 
And entangled.
Not destined to be pulled apart 
Filled with grief, guilt and passion
Burning in her heart.

I am Pandora.
With all her beauty
And gifts she was bestowed upon.
I have curiosity
Dancing upon my fingertips
And an urge to defy 
Those who claim their rights to my body.
I pry open the flesh with nails bare.
Just as the lid slips off the box.
And all thatbis evil is left to flourish.
Beneath a mans’ brow.

And I am the Pandora
Who gives birth to hope
When all seems dead
Even though
I was tricked into it.

I am Eve.
Another of those beautiful maidens
With curves so perfect
And body,
Like that of 
Carved out of pure marble.
First of her kind,
They said.
Guilty of banishment
From the Garden of eden,
The paradise.
They were born after.
The paradise
They sing false hymns about.
Even though
I was tricked into it.

I am a Woman 
As ghost as God
Mentioned so many times in history 
Every time written as 
The beautiful maiden
With a new metaphor for body.
The breasts as tender and firm as marble
And thighs the colour
That of the melting rose.
Hair, like silken threads of heaven.
Binding her soul.

And every time the poet’s
And myths and epics
Wrote about the wars 
Started by the vespertine beauty
Of a careless maiden.
The damsel in distress.
The root of all evil.

Never once mentioning,
Always failing to remind
That the jealousy of man
And pride on their
Beautiful, glorious, fleshy, alive possessions
Threw them into wars
And not mountains and plateaus of flesh
I carry upon my soul.

And because I am a Woman
As ghost as God.
With veins varicose
With grief and guilt and passion in my bones,

I stand 
With graveyards of my soul
And bones as pyres to burn tales 
They fabricate of my wrong doings.
Where I was never to blame.

And I have grief
For the tales and lies 
They brandished before
And I could not speak.

I have guilt
For not standing
As ghost as God
When they changed my body
Into bare naked metaphors
To please their lowly lords 
And shackled my mind
And wit and knowledge
Into chains of evil.
They claim were mine
And I never gave birth to.

I am a Woman 
As ghost as God.
And now I have passion 
To ‘re write stories
To create history 
And retell the tales they told.
With myths at the bottom of jar
And truth finally set free. 

I am not a mere woman.

I am an Idea.
To right the wrongs,
They wrote.
To erase the blame,
They placed.
And to recreate history
They left behind.

I  am more than flesh.
More than metaphors
That surround my body.

I am woman
As ghost as god.

 _Copy right Akanksha Krishnatre_