To the one reading 

Dear stranger,
You and I 
We do not belong
In a ‘we’.
I do not know
What your favourite colours
Look like.
I have never seen 
The shades your eyes shine
When the sunlight
Hits it just right.
I do not know
The smell of your favourite coffee
In a peachy morning blue.
I do not know
Whether you like chocolates
Or prefer pies.
I am devoid
Of all such knowledge 
These details
Of your life.

Yet stranger
I know that some nights
When the clock tick 3
You simply toss and turn
Unable to sleep.
Some nights
You simply stare
Out into the void
Unaware of self
Conscious intertwined with abyss.
And those nights
You do not yearn for someone
You do not need warm hugs
For the fire of your heart
Keeps you warm.
You know yourself
In the purest form.

I know
That some days are bright
sunshine tucked in your pockets
And stars in your eyes.
Those days you dress up
In your favourite clothes
Looking your best possible self.
And I know stranger
That some days
Giving a smile
Lending laughter
Is too much of a trouble.
Life is like dandelion seeds
Fragile and hard to grasp.

I know your regrets
Those unsaid words,
That still claw down your throat.

I know that life is not fair
It never is.
I know it hurt
When they went away
Maybe ,
Maybe they could have stayed.
I know at days
You curse fate
And at days yourself,
Hoping you could
Have made them stay

In weary nights
When you look at yourself
And start finding faults
And then sleep through the night
Welcomed by wet pillows.
I know you,
And I want to remind you
That you are beautiful.

I know that your heart,
Holds the biggest chandeliars
That beauty has to offer.
With firefly lights
Flickering and frolicking
Lit a thousand lights.

Stranger
I know your smile,
The way your lips curl
And teeths peek out.
The way you scrunch your nose
Crinkles reach your eyes.

Somedays
You enter the coffee shop
Sitting by the table
You sip that black delight
Or earlgrey ( your choice).
I know you find comfort
In watching people passing by.

I know how you jump
Seeing ballons go up
And how rides
Always make you sweat.
You love that cheesy over romantic movies
That you have denied each day.

I know you have cried
A thousand tears
Shown a few
Treasured the rest.
I know all that.
I know you hide your scars
But darling 
They make you strong.

And I am sorry
I could not tell you sooner
That stranger,
I have known it all along
And I want to remind you 
That through all days 
Good or bad
There are people
Who find you beautiful,
That know you
People who care.
So Stranger,
Darling
Take care.
©krishnatre

All things dark are heavy.

The senseless musings,
That just intermix and intertwine
From one platonic fact to another.
The time when sanity
Cracks a slap across the cheek
And still the difference,
Between alive and dead is fogged
In simple tales of delusion. 
The time when the night itself
Cannot decide between dusk or dawn,
And with the sombre confusion
The people are supposed
simply to breathe along.

The time when a muse less
Staring competition with the wall
Seems more sane than life.
The time when all the elixirs
And ambrosial drops of solutions
Gladly knock at your door,
Only for you to forget them
Another moment, another day.
The time when you one by one
Peel of your layers to your bare skin,
Afraid not of what is to come
But welcoming the dreary breathy silence.

The time when life is a tale
That has no ties with you
And is simply a movie to which
You are an avid audience.
The time when strangers
Fall in love with your words
And your words fall prey to love.

I won’t go elucidating how breathtaking
How magnificent 
How amusing 
The time of the night is 
When you bare your soul to life
And life bares its truth to you.
The time when the chime
Of each bell
The toll of every clock
Fades slowly, simply into nothingness.

The time when time is still
Like frozen with the raven blanket
Adorning the once blue top,
And stars like the ignored holes
Of day to day conflicts
From where light is seeping through.
The time when you just want
It to be like this forever
In the arms of Morpheus
Listening to your breaths
Like an understanding of the most vivid poetry,
That is time.

Ah! How beautiful
How enchanting 
Elusive yet Breathtaking.
The time when life and death
Collapse lovingly in an embrace
Of fate and destiny,
Like two lovers who were parted
A long time ago
And have finally found
Solace in that time of the night.

The time of the night when
Poets, writers and artists
Fret for much needed peace.
Peace from their own muses.
Trying to keep their sanity
Piece by piece together.
Yes! Finally you understood
The time of the night 
When lights are on 
Simply to keep on keeping on.

Ah the almost 3 of the night
When it is hard to decide
Between sleep and the temptation
To complete the last piece
You started, maybe destined
To be your next Magnum opus.
So maybe you give in 
To the claws of temptation
Or maybe you fall asleep.
It truly dosen’t matter
As long as it is that time of the night.

The almost three of the night.

Copyright Akanksha 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

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.

Heaven and Hell, Horatio.

The mosaic of moments
Wrapped in verdant,
Dance through the eternal 
muse of life.
So, Oh! Horatio.
There is no such thing
As happiness.
It’s a fleeting illusion
Created by a little less pain.
Ah! Take my words
My friend.
Suffering too isn’t real,
It is a choice between
Surviving with dignity
Or living with pain.
Who ever proclaim’d
life is easy,
Is a fool to be wary of.
For life is nothing
If not enough twisted
Into coils of wants and longing.
What is good with people
In this world
Oft gets incinerated
and what lives long
Is deeds that no corpse
Succumbs to have committed.
So Horatio, 
Heed my words my friend 
As I tell you to run,
Save your skin
While you truly can.
Because once you get
Embroiled in these endless
Threads of life.
Coming out unscathed
With no scars to tell your tale
Stand impossible.
So be saved my lord
While safety is possible.
So don’t survive,
Live my lord
While living isn’t a dream.
Ah! Love my lord
Until love isn’t tainted.
But heed my words
Don’t search for bliss
For it can’t be found.
And remember 
That world no longer
Is what it seems.
For there are more 
Things in heaven and hell 
Horatio
Then could ever be
Dreamt in your philosophy.

Akanksha Krishnatre

Cosmos 

The cosmos

Is a livid reflection

Of a child just born.

With its unearthly beauty

reflected in the orbs,

Of the untainted.


The gleaming stars,

In the blaze of dusky twilight

Are like the light,

reflecting in the eyes.

Vividly bent and twisted

A mosaic of time.


It is humongous ,

yet so small.

It has the shine

Of the toothless smile,

With moist pink lips

And plummy cheeks of child.


The cosmos

Is a wreaking vortex 

Like the child grown up

With tantrums in beauty

And a denial  

For a tranquil limit.


It is the turmoil of change,

Moving on its own accord

Answerable to none.

It resonates,

When the resonance can’t be heard

And shouts shattering silence.


It is passionate,

The milky galaxy of allure .

Like the salvation 

Of an artist young.

The one with a gaping hole

And nothing to fill the void.


The cosmos

But in reality is the old man,

Lounging in the wooden chair.

Talking of things,

He has survived

And the apocalypse seen.


It is the serenity of white 

The hair on the head half bald.

As he talks of the mistakes he saw

And the one he made.

Like the galaxy narrating

Of asteroids and the breaking shade.


It is in the wisdom

That the years had to offer,

No one has survived the cosmos

as no saw the old man,

From birth to death

Each counting last breath.

Akanksha Krishnatre 

My guide

Dearest Papa

Where shall I begin? Why not from the beginning. From the exact moment of time my conscience kicked into action and I can remember,  I know and I am aware of the fact that I was and I am proud to have you as my father. You know how to laugh insanely with me at my not-so-funny incidents , and you also are aware of the way to control the rage that I have , fueled directly from hell.

You , being the bibliophile you are , casted the precious ailment to me and made me a bookworm too. I cannot thank you enough for showing me the path to living different lives over and over again through words encrypted upon pages. Good lord! Now that I think about it , you were the one who always made sure that I was never short on classic novels.

You spoile me in an educational manner, in a way that I now can hold my ground and not let anyone trample upon my works. You make me confident of my potential to achieve. You made sure that my world was not only based upon books but I also had a firm grasp of school. Due to you today I even hold a  good result and abundance of knowledge, which when compared to you is still very less.

You remind me that I am a leader at heart. A teenager with enough courage to give her thoughts a strong voice , and I am grateful for that reminder. You were the reason I stood for the selection of House captain at my school ,and as you had foretold I became one. You know my future more than I have planned it.

Sometimes through the years I have heard you say ,that in me you see your own reflection. And take note of my words dear Dad ,that at that moment I could not be more proud of myself.

You , due to your drive towards history and literature,  often write and you were the first person to push me in the field of blank pages, pen, Ink and ideas . And now that through years I have grown and hold a much better understanding of the concept of writing , I remember that you were the one to hear my first work of poetry and with uncontained joy proclaimed that I could be a very strong and powerful poet. I know from looking back that my first poem was quite childish with attempted rhyme scenes ,written in the age of 9, yet you showed belief in me from the start.

Papa, for being my ideal, the person I believe in, the one I aspire to be like, whose dream I strive to fulfill. I would just simply like to thank you for everything. Be it the late night debates on writers or the heated discussion regarding economy or simply a combined view regarding politics or two different thoughts about a story. Whatever be it , you helped me grow in to the person that I today am.

You helped me develop in fields once beyond my comprehension, like a knowledgeable citizen of a developing country . You dear Dad, made me more of an individual than a person. So simply Thank you .

Your bibliophile little daughter
Akanksha Krishnatre