akratiisalive

Latest Posts by akratiisalive

oh my god i was just thinking about you yesterday! how're you?

hi heylo replying so late i uninstalled tumblr idk why mental health actually got more fucked up bc of that. anyways im back now. back for good i guess. in general, im doing well. mostly distracted ( happy, i mean), but then a sensational amount of suffering happens and im normal again. currently im doing really bad lol im at my parents. planning to leave in 10 hours. i will be better then :)

how are you? i miss talking to you, even those little conversations. i hope you’re eating well, and resting too. please reply back if you’re still active, would love to hear from you. 💗

omg hi akrati how’re you

amber!!! hellow hi how have you been? im good just logged into this account a couple of days ago ( i shifted accounts) i miss this place so much aha bc of uni been kinda offline etc its been great what about u what are u upto these days?

Transcript and tag-list under the cut:

Finding Your Home

There’s smoke coming from across the pond,/ A pond that doesn’t harbour water anymore./ How tenebrous must it be:/ I inhale the factory./ The remnants of your glass beads,/ they fall into place, marking my path/ into the throat of words & winds/ & I step ahead to lean into the summer.// Birds, vultures, butterflies:/ You keep your promises intact, / Air still harbours you./ But I am escaping your field. Honey,/ I want to escape your field./ If only I could be so righteous,/ If only I could have indulged before your periods,/ A probable concrete must have been built./ My words could have never sunk in your flesh,/ our elbows wouldn’t have stung in water. //By each step, i am stepping afar/ from the transient blue dome./ Children, Mothers, Grandparents-/ All are holding hands to protect each other,/ -Our hands were tied to our shadows, / So when I stepped onto yours, I set you free.// Another break from the vicious beauty:/ A tree so beaten stands like an electric pole/ that infuses current, I shan’t say but,/ in me and you./ I tiptoe around its roots:/ How firm must it be?/ Is it you? / Is it you?// At last the mud is turning grey,// Two well lit candles are welcoming my plight.// I breathe in the wicks with my mouth & nose// & your dictionaries come into sight.// They are so indifferent to what you have spoken,// I need your voice to pronounce these words.// Scouring the stone house, I find a litany// that bylines your name prefixing ‘late’.// Feeling my heart dousing your walls,// I step outside to find a mausoleum. // Mangoes-/ Rotten Mangoes are fencing your grave./ I shut my nose to fixate my sight/ onto the path that I have yet to cover/ Lest your death may be a distraction./ Distraction destruction-/I never succumbed/ to the grass adorning my grave. What difference/ does it make?/ If I mustn’t lie with you,/Why shall mother earth/ take me in?

tagging: @carvedoutofpain @rottensummerlove @nochampagneonlyproblems @some-broken-words @ruins-of-heart @hoeliterature @floralbeast @starlightandnightbreeze @riskanothergoodbye13 @mydogisgaytoo @kajukatliontop

A Ritual of Eternities by @akratiisalive, published in wine cellar press

transcript and tag list under the cut-

A Ritual of Eternities

On his Sunday mornings, I bury my prayers/in our backyard to remain intact while the bells toll,/ reminding myself breathing can exist outside of the four walls./ The cryptic of morning dew has far disappeared &/ multitudes of his kitchen rattle have ceased like time.// I lean away from my sight to find his ankles-/ heavy and wretched on the stones./ A breeze of autumn disposition has come/ to greet my morning breath/ & I let out a hushed scoff on nature’s humbleness/that still tends to his falsehood of preaching despair.// He drags the metal chair cutting the hymns enough for us/ to realize the betrayal we commit every seventh day in our chambers./ I plate his killings of plants and eggs to assure our fasting hunger,/ & His shadows cut through between our sunlight/ marking the graveyard of unheard words.// He draws his fork together with the knife as I pour honey/ as if wanting to weigh out the sweet/ in the bittersweet aftermath of our morning rituals./ We count our shared minutes in our separate countable eternities./ I swallow my eyes with the poison he pours in my chalice of wine.// On my Sunday mornings, he buries me with his forks and knives/ & I remain intact- torn away- but intact in his intestines./The cryptic of morning dew is buried deep within his fingernails/ and the multitudes of his kitchen rattle have ceased to exist.

tag list:

@ruins-of-heart @some-broken-words @rottensummerlove @it-is-what-it-is @floralbeast @nochampagneonlyproblems @riskanothergoodbye13 @hoeliterature @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad (why isnt this working ugh)

transcript and taglist under the cut-

a mother’s defying, a mother’s demise.

most days,/ he doesn't swim in his grief. he sleeps on it,/ only to wake up with misery underneath him,/ hugging his torso, grasping his neck./ he says, clenching his hands to the bark of the neem tree,/ "my mother has left me in the backyard to sleep with no place to bury her"/ so, he is carrying her around on his tongue/ between the words he swallows and/ the food he spits out.// on the road are children throwing rocks at trains,/ a man hiding his guilt from the view, not letting it drift away/ as he cups his hands to light a cigarette./ holstering himself to the kitchen window, / the boy longs for the freedom of the man./ a rush of noise, he longs to scream:/ an act of expressing where he needn't pick a language.// her bed is made before he calls it a night./ he finds the same next day at 7./ most days,/ it feels as if she hasn't abandoned the walls./ the water in the taps still runs its course through the right drain./ it's as if she intended for him to suffocate in the mundane.// so, he tugs under her quilt she left to dry in the backyard/ the boy sleeps with the sound of crickets/ canceling the occasional unrest from the train tracks,/ canceling the occasional unrest from her mother's dreams.

tag list:

@ruins-of-heart @some-broken-words @rottensummerlove @floralbeast @kajukatliontop @nochampagneonlyproblems @riskanothergoodbye13 @hoeliterature @it-is-what-it-it-iss @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad (still not working????????)

transcript and tag list under the cut:

Cacophonies of July

July has swept in like an unwanted stroke in a painting/ overshadowing the joys of June,/ breaking the eggshells on the kitchen counter into halves./ He wishes he had a bowl nearby to assemble the golden yolks./ The air is unbecoming, he cannot sense/ the rich yellow fibers in his mouth anymore.// Time is running on its course again,/ leaving him no choice but to breathe in the tram./ the dazzling sun is playing hide and seek./ The ground is demanding to be wet./ In the time of raging prickling sun,/ the ground is demanding to be wet.// He is turning over in between crimson sheets,/ a breath of fresh air and humidity, tepid skin./ The voices outside are muffling from siren roars/ as once again children step outside with/ a books-laden shoulders,/ not rainbow imprinted palms.// "I miss breathing in June. I will pine away July”,// The boy mumbles gazing hastily over the congested sink,// demanding repatriation in his anna’s house./ He is seeking patience in cowardice./ There's a little left for August’s arrival,/ he must seek patience in cowardice.

tag list:

@it-is-what-it-it-iss @floralbeast @kajukatliontop @nochampagneonlyproblems @riskanothergoodbye13 @hoeliterature @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad @rottensummerlove @ruru-is-insane @a-moonlit-poet

shoot an ask if you want to be added or removed. thanks so much for reading. <3

transcript: hands to my dreary dreams.

i have been shedding skins since last August. consider me an onion, your favourite vegetable. don’t put me in water. i need to shed your tears.// the dreams are dreary like cold milk or uncooked soup. the tepid air in the kitchen, under the sheets disgorges a burnt out fire, never a homely warmth. but in this one bedroom kitchen apartment, they heap incompleteness yet they are consumed like your favourite soup.// i want you to reach into my throat, past the lips that have never been swayed. reach out to the words i hoard, my secret stash, the ones that even eyes fail to convey.// reach out to me and i will meet you halfway in my sleep. all i do now is dream. the wishful thinking is not about staying still but moving quietly in my sleep. and letting the grass strike my face as i bend my limbs to mould into the tire. i am reaching out to every six year-old who played with me but i have replaced my body with a tall child.// i want to stand still, drive a knife to make myself two. a daughter, now let me be two cells too. mitosis: i want to get doubled, not divided into halves like my father.// untangle my earphones. are you watering my plants? the sun will incinerate their phantom vibrants for even clouds deceive when salt of the earth doesn’t hit the mark.// i have buried my grief in my mother’s lap. now, she has ceased to exist. meet me halfway in her shawl. i will wrap my fingers around yours. and in time, my windows will crawl back to our home, their edges engraved with her shawl.

tag list under the cut (ask to be added or removed):

@ruins-of-heart @a-moonlit-poet @rottensummerlove @ch3rryblo55oms @nochampagneonlyproblems @champagne-rush @mydogisgaytoo @floralbeast @it-is-what-it-it-iss @lilhappylilsad @hoeliterature @kajukatliontop

transcript:

summer’s shadowless exit wounds

august is shifting its entry wounds to october’s doors and the lines of your palms are telling you the number of summers you have spent in your shadow./ the essence of your mayhem is corpsing with sun’s each passing ray;/ the salivary savour of the right ingrown wisdom tooth has cut through your tongue./ in lieu of mango-lit dreamland hours, you are bleeding summer’s grass blades into bleached hair by the pumpkin moon./ the air doesn’t taste saline anymore. // the badlands bequeathed from your father’s lineage have traces ingrained/ even in your attic’s decades-old dust./ they are robbing you of yarns of your maternal grandma’s sarees./ and you’re tired./ you’re tired of helping your mother out to make space for every hand-me-downs/ she has been shoving under her bed. // summer did cut through like a knife/ but you had been stitching your outspoken words/ together to make sweeter sentences,/ so,/ when this year’s fall bids your birds goodbye, they wouldn’t be left with traces of your anomaly. the ones that flew out/ as soon as you opened yourself to the sun,/ for you have realised that the light/ can find you even with the curtains drawn./ there is no place to hide except for the sun’s mouth.// the top right foot of the dinning table/ has stopped creaking./ your grandfather passed away in July./ Chapatis in the house have/ thickened to the normal measure,/ so now,/ you won’t get called names on your bony frame. father sits in the bedroom, contemplating/ on the bait of his day’s sweat by/ the notes he gave out that day and the ones/ he will receive at the end of the month./ the dining table,/ now,/ sits empty in a muffled rattle.// your tongue tastes like/ the decayed French Marigolds/ you found in your late may’s school backpack./ its fragrance still travels through when/ you smell it in between the beige curtains/ of the attic’s room./ you are pondering on what must it be like to watch yourself sleep./ the heart is not heart shaped and/ you want to wash dishes with the foam/ but there are none left in the sink./ you haven’t eaten for 2 hours and,/ unlawfully,/ like an adult’s dream,/you are hungry again.

taglist under the cut! ( send an ask to be added removed.)

@champagnesrush @ch3rryblo55oms @ruins-of-heart @a-moonlit-poet @rottensummerlove @jules-hazard @it-is-what-it-it-iss @kajukatliontop @floralbeast @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad @parihumay (if anyone knows their moved blog, pls notify me)

i have so many files in my notes app that mention/are based on summer. its really hard to bid something goodbye that was never meant to stay long when you live around people and not with them. i am stuck within a corner of myself that i have created by consuming deeply irreligious media which never bothers the ones i live around. i don’t know why i am writing this because this isn’t making sense but it’s supposed to. sun today here isn’t shinning and all the birds depart from the sky by 4:30 pm. the verandah echoes emptiness even though we have just hung a new swing, knowing we will hardly sit on it anymore. we tiptoe around tragedies every other moment but in this house we never speak of the real. i need to read books and consume mitski more. the gap between those parked cars is making me realize how much i crave for a tightly packed space with my neighbours. god is not around because i was dreaming of calm waters this morning as i woke up with a jolt and my body didn’t shiver. the days will grow darker tomorrow but today is almost over and nobody seems to acknowledge how much they miss it.

transcript:

Eulogy from The Dead

I have been meaning to form coherent sentences/ for a month now,/ which is to say i died/ a month ago,/ which is to say i was seen/ since my beginning,/ which is to say i was / grieved too,/ in a way that/ didn’t exceed my expectations,/ which is to say/ the people who touched my carcass/ might still be breathing/ with a/ washed- off sense / of myself,/ which is to say/ i am alive.

taglist under the cut (ask to be added or removed.):

@ruins-of-heart @a-moonlit-poet @jules-hazard @rottensummerlove @it-is-what-it-it-iss @kajukatliontop @nochampagneonlyproblems @champagnesrush @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad @ch3rryblo55oms @parihumay (if somebody knows their moved blog, please inform!) @eveesque

on his day and mine

taglist under the cut:

@ruins-of-heart @a-moonlit-poet @rottensummerlove @champagnesrush @kajukatliontop @jules-hazard @eveesque @ch3rryblo55oms @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad @it-is-what-it-it-iss @parihumay ( if yk their moved blog, do inform!)

transcript and taglist under the cut (send an ask to be added or removed):

Likes and REBLOGS are more than appreciated!

Home- wrecker

home-wrecker! your devoid/ awaits my freedom./ seventeen and sucking the dirt/ out of your newspapers:/ annihilating a mother’s only successor.// the aftertaste of your/ sweet breakfast: there/ is another political argument/ i do not want to fight./ your lips so unsealed,/ i almost divide.// the khaki pants,/ the leather chappals;/ in your dreamland,/ i am burrowing the glass dirt./ in your dreamland,/ you are excavating the cause’s birth.// i see your fingers placed/ evenly on the knife,/ a firm grip on the pink onion,/ too tight sometimes./ the stretch of the thumb/ is eluding the blade;/ the blade so clear/ we prick each other’s face. // an apple pudding,/ a national plight,/ i heard you singing/ in the shower tonight,/ i heard you escaping/ from the waters tonight. // i unmake your bed before/ the bell chimes 8./ your silver- worn hands/ hold me at a caressing stake./ the dreams,/ if not forgotten,/ hold a near distant reality:/ i am holding your breath in my wake.

taglist

@ruins-of-heart @a-moonlit-poet @rottensummerlove @it-is-what-it-it-iss @kajukatliontop @nochampagneonlyproblems @champagnesrush @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad @ch3rryblo55oms @jules-hazard @eveesque @wigilda @theazurepoet @star-dust-2317 @catguin-the-kitty-cat @kittywritesmistress @a-smart-dumbass( not working?)

transcript and tag list under the cut! (ask to be added):

i am being in one but many forms

remember when it was about screaming once in two months? when i was not a big girl but my father was still old? when all the cheap porcelain was the centre of attention in our house? &, when there were no dolls but i wasn’t allowed to cross the road on my own?// i. the growing is like a venus flytrap: two-fold./ evil, like a fortnight before spring./ spring, like summer’s step-child./ when i remember/ my 8 years old shadow: i was becoming./ now, at 16, i want to be seen.// ii. the mirroring of another’s solitude was a/ foot less deep when i handed them my chocolate. now, i am making bread but to never consume. now, i don’t measure sugar/ or hear the alarm./ if it weren’t for the cries for 8 pm tv shows,/ i’d still be a little more tenuous./ i think a girl starts rotting when/ she feels blood in her body.// iii. not to say that i can lie today, but/ there was not much to lie about back then./ i broke a glass./ but another hand searched for the shards too./ and also! i never had to lie!/ my brother announced my mishaps/ before my mother even approached me.// iv. today, i do not lie on the ground/ but rush to the washroom to sit and stare./ i feel content when i grit my teeth/ & i don’t feel them breaking/ because,/ i always closed my mouth when i peed./ oh, don’t you know? my mother said/ it’s bad for your teeth when you let them be/ in the restroom. it weakens them./ “as if teeth are something that could be/ weaken! as if teeth have beards!”// v. to write nothing everyday is not a logic/ i want to normalise. but the thing is,/ it starts to feel ecstatic/ when i see a mirror & i stand to stare./ another being. same as me./ i exist,/ two fold: skin and bones./ tenuous: a rope tied to throat./ i exist./ i didn’t rot, i exist.

taglist: @ruins-of-heart @a-moonlit-poet @rottensummerlove @it-is-what-it-it-iss @kajukatliontop @nochampagneonlyproblems @champagnesrush @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad @ch3rryblo55oms @parihumay @jules-hazard @eveesque @wigilda @theazurepoet @star-dust-2317 @catguin-the-kitty-cat @a-smart-dumbass( still not working:((? )

taglist and transcript under the cut.

(send an ask to be added or removed.)

AN EXCURSION TO THE ENIGMA OF HINDSIGHT OF HIDING

when the dusk sets upon another day’s palpable roof, i climb the stairs to feel the cold in the clothes. the chill is nothing but another victim of nature’s pocket folds, another one that doesn’t last but occurs each day, on the stroke. “i rise, i rise, i rise”, i say when the sun is not around to make my way. i fail, i fail, i fail, i feel another eternity of a daughter’s fate. //the clamp of these adjoined roofs reeks of a damp shoulder that rubs on yours. i could see our neighbor’s television set, the men with their bar nibbles in the kind of bowl that i wouldn’t let another soul take out the crockery cabinet. stumbling in between the clotheslines, i call upon God to patrol the men in hiding.// i larp as another victim of the menstrual cycle- a lifeless frame made of the red; a work-in-progress. debugging the long-believed myth of a woman making a man, i climb the stairs two at a time. i am trying to open myself for the future, replicating my body’s instincts, too soon to not last long, like an unripe banana. // with hardly any antennas in sight to disrupt, i pick up grits to throw at our neighbor’s. they have held me too dear, caressed my head so much that now my hair is falling flat. and i cannot be God’s another child who loses beauty because the beholder’s eyes held them too tight. // but instead, i drop them on the street, hoping to witness some blood when a head crashes into them, hoping to witness some human in these beings. the thoughts have no end for their completion is symbiotic to the noiseless walls. the people in this area have given up on feeling pretty & i am thinking of applying the shoplifted Lakme’s blood-red lipstick. // each day, the covet to scare takes up a new member’s place in our house & my mother is falling short of the food to serve. each day, i give up another hair to look pretty when i comb. each day, i dream of fetching those china bowls and hiding them into the trap of nature’s pocket folds.

taglist:

@ruins-of-heart @a-moonlit-poet @bedfordhealyx @it-is-what-it-it-iss @kajukatliontop @nochampagneonlyproblems @champagnesrush @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad @dehydratedsucculent @parihumay @jules-hazard @eveesque @wigilda @theazurepoet @cloudlessnightssleeplessfight @catguinstudies @a-smart-dumbass

taglist and transcript under the cut!

grief is a mother

grief is a mother that sits with the birds/ early morning in the graveyard/ pouring water over the rained ground./ she sits & thinks & larps over the plants/ that rise above her child’s grave. thunder/ is what she bequeaths before coming home.// home of hers is a rotten kitchen/ where the tiles shine of blood & tears wipe them, where the knives/ don’t know of the cabinet,/ & the spices rot within 20 days./ she stands behind the counter and/ serves the morning soup for two./ gets up & wipes the tears;/ she lets the blood cook the soup.// grief is a mother waiting/ for an unchained daughter./ she rubs the blanket to her feet at night,/ thinks of Spring with the crib of her/ moonchild. a daughter, an unholy wound;/ she dreams of churches and hears/ high pitched snores. snores of another with whom she shares her warmth/ that brings her wishes/ & a means to ponder along.// grief is a mother with an early scar./ each afternoon, in the quiet she drowns/ in her mother’s womb. soaking inside the sac, hands entwined, she rises to practice the/ eulogy she failed. with each breath,/ she dies of the blood that runs in her veins.// grief is a mother with a damp rug,/igniting fires for lives to cradle;/ a mother that sings in whispers by the burrow. calling upon the heathens, she mourns the death of her tears./ grief is a mother that lives/ in the memory of mothers.

taglist: @ruins-of-heart @a-moonlit-poet @bedfordhealyx @it-is-what-it-it-iss @kajukatliontop @nochampagneonlyproblems @stewywhoresseni @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad @cherryblossom @parihumay @jules-hazard @eveesque @wigilda @theazurepoet @cloudlessnightsleeplessfight @catguinstudies @a-smart-dumbass

transcript and tag-list under the cut!

still in these streets, water doesn’t wash up/ the clothes on the clotheslines/ the denial in sun’s warmth is visible at noon/ when it’s invisible in its own light/ the language of all is hurling to their/ destination’s child. // still in these streets the girl runs around/ in the brisk of moonlight/ the helium in her brother’s balloons/ comes at the cost of God’s shrilling cries./ all her lovers hop away from her/ favourite rhymes.// still in these streets the dogs pet/ their parents with a wry smile/ cigarettes fall in the grass after hushing the conversations of lovers around midnight/ films reel at the town hall/ haunting the elder’s sight. // still in these streets the clouds/ don’t hold back tears when the young dies/ still the the general store doesn’t open all night/ still in these streets, my parents walk alike.

taglist: @ruins-of-heart @a-moonlit-poet @bedfordhealyx @it-is-what-it-it-iss @kajukatliontop @nochampagneonlyproblems @sifaaarish @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad @cherryblossom @parihumay @jules-hazard @eveesque @wigilda @theazurepoet @cloudlessnightssleeplessfight @catguinstudies @a-smart-dumbass @anarchist-therapist @sweetbutwhateverbaby

please feel free to send an ask to be added or removed!<3

special thanks to @fawadkhangf for titling this piece!

transcript and taglist under the cut!

Tender Curses

Tenderness is the wound I chisel out of you/ when we scrape the light off of us in the shower/ in the mornings enclosed with curtains drawn./ I sing to the beats of the water that falls without touching you.// In ache when we join fingers to your delight, my lover,/ you curse the thumb that circles my palm./ In ways when you whisper of the lack of flesh in this world,/ I hear your impetrations of succumbing to a child’s sky.// When after the evening dream in the purple, the moon turns into a star,/ I sit on your collarbones, you weigh my scars./ We weave of all the ways ocean will never turn against the shore;/ the morning contrives the lumps in our throat.// From the lies with which we draw our quilts,/ you reek of tenderness, I chant your sins./ After the morning tea when you talk of numbers and the deaths in a far-off land,/ I chisel out your wounds of tenderness and carpent our hourglass.

taglist: @king-of-knives @a-moonlit-poet @bedfordhealyx @it-is-what-it-it-iss @kajukatliontop @nochampagneonlyproblems @fawadkhangf @mygayisdogtoo @lilhappylilsad @cherryblossom @parihumay @jules-hazard @eveesque @wigilda @theazurepoet @ghostfilesbish @penguinstudiesstuff @a-smart-dumbass @anarchist-therapist @intoxicatednits @rustyswingset

@/akratiisalive

(taglist under the cut!)

@king-of-knives @a-moonlit-poet @bedfordhealyx @it-is-what-it-it-iss @kajukatliontop @nochampagneonlyproblems @fawadkhangf @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad @cherryblossom @parihumay @jules-hazard @eveesque @wigilda @theazurepoet @ghostof @catguinstudies@a-smart-dumbass @anarchist-therapist @petulanceinaprettyflower @intoxicatednits @bellaisthebeast @rustyswingset

@/akratiisalive

(taglist under the cut!)

@king-of-knives @a-moonlit-poet @bedfordhealyx @it-is-what-it-it-iss @kajukatliontop @nochampagneonlyproblems @fawadkhangf @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad @cherryblossom @parihumay @jules-hazard @eveesque @wigilda @theazurepoet @ghostof @catguinstudies@a-smart-dumbass @anarchist-therapist @petulanceinaprettyflower @intoxicatednits @bellaisthebeast @rustyswingset

should i like post a poem im not very proud of but has some stuff that i think i have never written like or wait to have a mentally deranged absolutely soul crushing experience and then write about it and post its watered down version?

special thanks to @fawadkhangf for titling this piece!

transcript and taglist under the cut!

Tender Curses

Tenderness is the wound I chisel out of you/ when we scrape the light off of us in the shower/ in the mornings enclosed with curtains drawn./ I sing to the beats of the water that falls without touching you.// In ache when we join fingers to your delight, my lover,/ you curse the thumb that circles my palm./ In ways when you whisper of the lack of flesh in this world,/ I hear your impetrations of succumbing to a child’s sky.// When after the evening dream in the purple, the moon turns into a star,/ I sit on your collarbones, you weigh my scars./ We weave of all the ways ocean will never turn against the shore;/ the morning contrives the lumps in our throat.// From the lies with which we draw our quilts,/ you reek of tenderness, I chant your sins./ After the morning tea when you talk of numbers and the deaths in a far-off land,/ I chisel out your wounds of tenderness and carpent our hourglass.

taglist: @king-of-knives @a-moonlit-poet @bedfordhealyx @it-is-what-it-it-iss @kajukatliontop @nochampagneonlyproblems @fawadkhangf @mygayisdogtoo @lilhappylilsad @cherryblossom @parihumay @jules-hazard @eveesque @wigilda @theazurepoet @ghostfilesbish @penguinstudiesstuff @a-smart-dumbass @anarchist-therapist @intoxicatednits @rustyswingset

oh my god thank you so much for thinking of my art like that you’re such a sweet soul hugging you rn💗

I wanna straight up absorb some of y’all’s art styles into my cerebral cortex via osmosis

transcript and tag-list under the cut!

still in these streets, water doesn’t wash up/ the clothes on the clotheslines/ the denial in sun’s warmth is visible at noon/ when it’s invisible in its own light/ the language of all is hurling to their/ destination’s child. // still in these streets the girl runs around/ in the brisk of moonlight/ the helium in her brother’s balloons/ comes at the cost of God’s shrilling cries./ all her lovers hop away from her/ favourite rhymes.// still in these streets the dogs pet/ their parents with a wry smile/ cigarettes fall in the grass after hushing the conversations of lovers around midnight/ films reel at the town hall/ haunting the elder’s sight. // still in these streets the clouds/ don’t hold back tears when the young dies/ still the the general store doesn’t open all night/ still in these streets, my parents walk alike.

taglist: @ruins-of-heart @a-moonlit-poet @bedfordhealyx @it-is-what-it-it-iss @kajukatliontop @nochampagneonlyproblems @sifaaarish @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad @cherryblossom @parihumay @jules-hazard @eveesque @wigilda @theazurepoet @cloudlessnightssleeplessfight @catguinstudies @a-smart-dumbass @anarchist-therapist @sweetbutwhateverbaby

please feel free to send an ask to be added or removed!<3

One poem that’s all i read of yours ….” Home wrecker “

how-

is-

how is it possible someone writes so damn awesome

hands down just ugh *chef kisses*

so good

i'm so glad u liked it <333

okay so im really not that educated in the poems department and only know select poets so my observations might just sound stupid but your poems remind me of emily Dickinson!! i love ur poems and somehow your poems are the only ones ive reread! i usually just like a poem and then forget but i keep on coming back here for ur poems anywyas i used the word poems a lot here sorry about there and also sorry for rambling you're really swag though i hope you have great day

omg wha- thank you so much for saying that to me??? i have been staring at this message for like 5 mins now and i really dont know how to respond. i have been an ardent reader of miss dickinson and i dont think i can accept this honour but i'm so in awe that you feel tht way. i hope you have a great day too and a cozy winter!

taglist and transcript under the cut!

grief is a mother

grief is a mother that sits with the birds/ early morning in the graveyard/ pouring water over the rained ground./ she sits & thinks & larps over the plants/ that rise above her child’s grave. thunder/ is what she bequeaths before coming home.// home of hers is a rotten kitchen/ where the tiles shine of blood & tears wipe them, where the knives/ don’t know of the cabinet,/ & the spices rot within 20 days./ she stands behind the counter and/ serves the morning soup for two./ gets up & wipes the tears;/ she lets the blood cook the soup.// grief is a mother waiting/ for an unchained daughter./ she rubs the blanket to her feet at night,/ thinks of Spring with the crib of her/ moonchild. a daughter, an unholy wound;/ she dreams of churches and hears/ high pitched snores. snores of another with whom she shares her warmth/ that brings her wishes/ & a means to ponder along.// grief is a mother with an early scar./ each afternoon, in the quiet she drowns/ in her mother’s womb. soaking inside the sac, hands entwined, she rises to practice the/ eulogy she failed. with each breath,/ she dies of the blood that runs in her veins.// grief is a mother with a damp rug,/igniting fires for lives to cradle;/ a mother that sings in whispers by the burrow. calling upon the heathens, she mourns the death of her tears./ grief is a mother that lives/ in the memory of mothers.

taglist: @ruins-of-heart @a-moonlit-poet @bedfordhealyx @it-is-what-it-it-iss @kajukatliontop @nochampagneonlyproblems @stewywhoresseni @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad @cherryblossom @parihumay @jules-hazard @eveesque @wigilda @theazurepoet @cloudlessnightsleeplessfight @catguinstudies @a-smart-dumbass

gurl 😳😳 im going 💕💕💕💕 sending you a packet full of warm hugs as we speak<3

Sometimes I scroll through this silly little app and look at what my mutuals write and I am just. I am floored. The god damn talent you all have with words. And you share that talent with the world. For free. Like. Incredible.

taglist and transcript under the cut.

(send an ask to be added or removed.)

AN EXCURSION TO THE ENIGMA OF HINDSIGHT OF HIDING

when the dusk sets upon another day’s palpable roof, i climb the stairs to feel the cold in the clothes. the chill is nothing but another victim of nature’s pocket folds, another one that doesn’t last but occurs each day, on the stroke. “i rise, i rise, i rise”, i say when the sun is not around to make my way. i fail, i fail, i fail, i feel another eternity of a daughter’s fate. //the clamp of these adjoined roofs reeks of a damp shoulder that rubs on yours. i could see our neighbor’s television set, the men with their bar nibbles in the kind of bowl that i wouldn’t let another soul take out the crockery cabinet. stumbling in between the clotheslines, i call upon God to patrol the men in hiding.// i larp as another victim of the menstrual cycle- a lifeless frame made of the red; a work-in-progress. debugging the long-believed myth of a woman making a man, i climb the stairs two at a time. i am trying to open myself for the future, replicating my body’s instincts, too soon to not last long, like an unripe banana. // with hardly any antennas in sight to disrupt, i pick up grits to throw at our neighbor’s. they have held me too dear, caressed my head so much that now my hair is falling flat. and i cannot be God’s another child who loses beauty because the beholder’s eyes held them too tight. // but instead, i drop them on the street, hoping to witness some blood when a head crashes into them, hoping to witness some human in these beings. the thoughts have no end for their completion is symbiotic to the noiseless walls. the people in this area have given up on feeling pretty & i am thinking of applying the shoplifted Lakme’s blood-red lipstick. // each day, the covet to scare takes up a new member’s place in our house & my mother is falling short of the food to serve. each day, i give up another hair to look pretty when i comb. each day, i dream of fetching those china bowls and hiding them into the trap of nature’s pocket folds.

taglist:

@ruins-of-heart @a-moonlit-poet @bedfordhealyx @it-is-what-it-it-iss @kajukatliontop @nochampagneonlyproblems @champagnesrush @mydogisgaytoo @lilhappylilsad @dehydratedsucculent @parihumay @jules-hazard @eveesque @wigilda @theazurepoet @cloudlessnightssleeplessfight @catguinstudies @a-smart-dumbass