Monsters in closet.

Skeletons are in closet,
And coffins are empty.
People have sockets for faces,
And eyes look back in the head.
Veins no longer run beneath skin
and the heart turns green from red.
People look pale,
With no colours adorning the face.
And the monster that thrives
Slowly in their thoughts,
Smiles with lips twisted
In a mosaic of emotions,
Colours and hatred.
Born out of rage
Nurtured in the fire of shame.
The monster
Oh! The green eye’d monster,
That is present here
In this moment.
He thrives in skeletons
That you so beautifully,
Have adorned in your closed closets.
So before the lock is broken,
Lay down the bones
Clean them,
Nourish them,
And make sure to dig a grave
So deep, so hollow, so shallow
That in that labyrinth
Of darkness,
The skeletons are buried forever.
Remember to fill the hole
With lies so concretely woven,
And stories cemented truly
That not even you can find
A loophole to bring the bones back.
Go check your skeletons ,
Born out of the coloured demon
If they have truly,
Broken down into fragments 
That can be laid,
And cleansed,
and sworn into secrecy.
Because once a skeleton is found,
Remember! No one will listen
To your tales of devastation.
Struggling with their own bones,
They will make you go down
In fear of being found,
With the charge of murder,
That they too have committed
Each day.

©krishnatre

Phases

​Did you notice
When only ombre silence
Greeted your hellos?
Or did you notice
When after days at end of sulking
You turned to complain again
And was met with air instead?
When was it
That you finally realized
That as the moon through its phases,
Changes into nothingness
From crescendos of Light,
The same happened in real life?

She was a different kind of moon,
Or she was not the moon itself,
You never know.
A paradox,
Predictable in her unpredictability.
The kind of moon that she was, 
She never intended to hold on to the stars.
Never claimed that the sky was hers,
(Although it truly belonged to her)
and was ready to share her home.

She was like an old metaphor,
Furnishing every poets poetry,
An untold story sealed in a few words.
So when was it
That you truly realised
That the poem you were so intent
On breaking apart,
On taking the strings of words
And stretching them until
The syllabals lost their meaning,
Was not that easy to decipher.

With her flaws, her scars,
Her battle wounds,
All she held onto as lessons,
That made her hard to fall
For uncharted,
Unanswered,
Uninviting
Sombre silence.

Did you notice,
That the keeper was begone
When the monsters climbed your walls?
Or did you notice,
That the healer had left weary,
When your wounds remained open,
Untended and green?
When was it?

Honour clad in robes of truth
With bejeweled promises upon it.
She wore her words like silk
To the last shaky breath.
Always and Forever 
She had said.
Always and forever
It would be.

When was it,
That you noticed?
Oh wait! With your eyes closed still,
With shards of blindfold within
You still are unknown.
( Ah it will be a blow,
To the good’ol heart like yours)
Ah! Sweetheart,
Like the moon with its phases
She will be an eclipse soon.
And you would search for her
Among the sky,
Beyond the horizon
Failing to find her true form. 
And unlike the moon,
She won’t come back again
To light your weary nights
And reward a lost hope.

Chipping away at her heart,
Asphyxiating her attempts to renew
Hope, laughter and joy.
So you will notice
How fumbling towards the crescent,
She moves to mumble
A sad and soppy
Ode of a Goodbye.

©krishnatre

How to ( A guide to become Human)

Ah! I found a manual today.
Hardbound it was kept 
On the counter of 
The measley cafe I own
Named ‘The earthly invasions’.
It is a simple building
With a blue ceiling where
The ceiling lights flicker
Off and on.
The floor, a mixture of numerous
Patches of colours green, blue 
and brown.

In this measly cafe 
Where living beings thrive
Drinking the ambrosial drop
That poured down.
Ah! On the counter the fat ugly book
Kept it’s provoking, accusing gaze
On each customer that stood
Erect on paws two with pride.
The book is a grimoire, 
A spell book of some sort,
That has spells and charms 
To make a frog into a prince 
And a queen into a couldron.

With perfect caution I turned the pages
That were rusty with abuse.
Flaxen prints of time had flourished
In the book untouched from ages.
I came to a guide
Where the ingredients 
were mentioned
With a detailed description 
For “how to become Human.”

First it said
Take a soul from the fire of hell.
For what good could you do
To the soul already pious in heaven.
The souls that have sinned
That have betrayed and broke trust
That have bullied and killed
Are more of a sensible choice
For this recipie. 
After the selection of soul
Lock it in jar
as you go searching for conscience 
In the labyrinth of crimes
Make sure to choose 
That is tainted, even if 
Only by a small mistake.
Now beware.
Do not add the conscience
To the soul in jar
Before furnishing it with
The nectar of kindness 
Which is impossible to find.
Also add a pinch of insanity
To the sane old conscience,
For what good is a mind
Without crazyness that nurtures 
A child in the elder form.
Now check again for mistakes
Before we go searching for passion
Because kindness and childlike wonder
Are hard to find.
Steal passion from autumn leaves
That have fallen on ground.
The crimson leaves burning
To pave a new path are
By strength bound.

Ah! So you found the soul
A heart full of passion.
Now move on to find
The numerous threads
That will make a human. 
So now search for longing
That you will find
In the purest form in homes
Of age old people
Watching the door for their children.
The heart needs hope,
The wrenching torment
That peeps when
No way is found.
So look for hope
Smothered with good will 
In the family of person
Breathing on his death bed.
Ah so found hope,
Cajole it in the heart
Before life tears it into pieces.

Now did you look for love
My dear dear witch or wizard.
Ah! You forgot I see,
Get along searching for 
The elixir that runs in the veins
Of life and death.
You will find it
In the intertwined hands
Of two soulmates 
That lie content breathing 
The same breath.

Did you take a teaspoon of joy?
If not then find it
In new born’s smile.
And also gather a little sorrow
For what is life without pain.
Now for flavour let’s savour
The simple threads 
That will bind the heart to the soul.
Find care for family
And intimacy for friends
Because a heart without
Warmth is a soul without heart.

Now that you have found
All the ingredients big or small.
Let us now put them together
To make the human we aspire.
The conscience with morality
Kindness and Insanity
Is fit into the soul. 
And heart filled with passion, 
Love, intimacy, care, hope 
Is bred into a charm.
And then installed with utmost
Delicacy into the soul 
Without harm.

So my Sweet pumpkins, 
My honey drops,
The witches and wizards
Welcome to My measley humble Cafe
“The Earthly Invasions”.
Where a grimoire lies
Waiting for you with
Precise instructions as to
“How to become Human”.

Akanksha Krishnatre

You are your own.

In a crowd as you sit silent,
Looking back at a thousand memories
Of people that no longer have a part
That no longer have a hold
Over what you do
Over what you say.
As you sit musing
Amidst chaos,
Amidst laughter,
Your cacophonous thoughts,
Your thousand smiles,
Your million twinkles,
And infinite stories.
All that you have
Contained in small bits and pieces
Among yourself.

As you put back the puzzle
That you never knew existed.
Then today,
You decided
A thousand times over,
A million breaths after,
Infinite memories later,
To abandon
To leave
To erase 
To evade
All that they were
All that they had become.

Because you learnt,
Today
How in these countless days
You are your own.
You mean the world.
You live and you love.
But before anyone
You are your own.
Your own demon
Your own angel.
Your mistakes and
Your corrections.
You responsibilities and
Your faults.
They all belong to you.

And the people
Once you called your own.
Erase them.
The souls nurtured in need.
Leave them.
The smiles of wants.
Defy them.
They don’t deserve you.
You are above their truth.
Because in a million lives over
They would leave you alone.

And the best part.
You will win all the battles
You want.
You will have victory over your
Own demons.
You will dig graves for those,
Who deserve to be buried.
You will come victorious when 
Only deafeat was possible.
You will survive when life
Will assure you with paths to die.
You learn about the truth of people
When you were going to trust.
So before you are broken
A million ways will tell you
To patch yourself up together.
Because there are people
Out there who actually
Are waiting a thousand breaths
To just know that you are there.

So a thousand times over
Remember when life tries 
To pull you down.
Before anything else.
Before anyone else
You sweetheart,
You are your own.


Akanksha Krishnatre

The Things We do for Love.

As I dip the quill
In your blood,
Swirling the thick liquid
In circles.
Writing poetries,
That exist on the undertones of flesh.
Branding the heart,
Cushioned with the proddings of my pen.
In those fearfully bright lit eyes,
Which hold the abyss
And void with reflecting light.
I sway the rose,
The lilies,
And the wolfsbane
In your crimson fuel,
Ablaze.

I swirl and sway with the rhythm,
Of your still pumping heart
Which gives the music,
That once was the reason to breathe.
Now a necessity to live.

So I encase it
In a big black box,
With locks and keys guarded.
More strongly than
The heart of Davy Jones. 
Upon your fiery lips,
I place the cool petals,
That once were adored
By your kisses.

And mirrors in your bosom,
To hold me infinitely
There somewhere.
Where once a heart lied
Now lies a hollow socket,
Reeking of affection and adoration.

So that heart cased in cage,
And those lilies stand in a vase
Dripping drop by drop,
The tales of life.
Slowly unweaving the silk threads
That once bound you and me.

So the thick petals of roses,
Dipped in the elixir of your blood
Are now curled with heat of your cheeks.
They have lost their tenderness,
Changing to the hollow human
That you now are left.
So I place them upon your picture
Relishing the metaphor.

On the slaughter counter
Lies your pious body.
No longer the chest moves
Up and down.
No longer a fire burns in eyes
And the socket has lost a heart.
But still in those loathed images
You stand beautiful.
Oh so beautiful.
I stand back and look
At the masterpiece.
My Magnum opus.
You.
On the counter with the pale face reflected
In the blue lights of ovens flame.
Ready to embrace you,
Adore you in its flames. 
To hold you down,
To lull you to sleep.
A sleep where dreams
Are afraid to enter
In the fear of being marked forever.

So you my Masterpiece,
are like a lost painting of Picasso,
That I finally completed.

(c) Akanksha Krishnatre.

Does it Truly Matter?

Does it truly matter
If your eyes water’d once
Or are always moist.
Does it matter 
If your eyes are foreign to tears
Or dry forever.
Does it truly matter
If your heart broke once
Or has countless pieces to pick.
Does it matter
If your heart is intact
Or dripping innocence coated love.
Does it truly matter
If you fell for him once
Or a few thousand times.
Does it matter
That you knew him to be trouble
Or simply cushioned your fall.
I ask what does it matter
At the end?
What truly matters
Is that you survived.
Remained a warrior
Through what life threw at you.
You picked up the mess,
Life made you
And sorted peace
Out of pure blazing chaos.
At the end what matters
Is you.
Simply 
Always and Forever
You.

(c) Akanksha Krishnatre.

Ever wonder?

Do you ever wonder
What would happen if
Your dreams were a precap
To the future.
A trailor to the movie
That would just happen
In the halls
Of minds and reality.
What would happen
If the souls adorning
Your nightmares came walking
The ominous street.
How frightening it would be
To suddenly
Out of the blue
Meet a human
To already have met
Him in a dream
Or a nightmare.
As you walked away from him
Leaving him.
Screaming on top
Of his lungs
You left him bound in chains.
You would hear 
The clanging and tinkling
Of chains long before
They are bound to appear.
So you will just wait
For the clocks to tick.
How enchanting it would be
To know what is to happen
How powerful yet
How powerless you would feel
To know that you 
Though knowing of the future
Have no strength to change it.
And so when those dreams
Will knock gently
At your door.
You would open your eyelids,
Simply gazing
At the whitewashed ceiling
Wondering,
If the devils will enter soon.

(c) Akanksha Kriahnatre.