Hey Guys! How Are Y’all? Hope August Is Being Nice To You. Haven’t Been Able To Post Something In

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

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

standing by her mother in the kitchen,

she plays around with knives and spoons.

her mother refrains, she puts them back;

gazing graciously, her eyes linger upon the stove-

four feet is all, she tiptoes

a little closer: steam's up to her face.

she sees the color-

dazzling brown with a tint of red.

tastes saliva, she can feel the cardamom,

though too small to even boil the water.

her steps pace the kitchen,

a frown lingers upon her head,

"what are you cooking, mama?"

"your brother's favorite."

- @akratiisalive

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????????)

hey guys! hope you all are doing good and/or manifesting the good times. i just wanted to notify you that since my exams will be starting from next week and the coming months this year will be very busy, i may have to go on a semi-hiatus. which means, i will be posting my works but not very regularly and might not be active as much, but just for a couple of months. posts will be queued. since my blog is not going anywhere, you can always wander around my works, maybe reblog them if you like them.

i also have been very creatively deprived recently. but, have been trying to cherish it as well. that being said, i wanted to ask if you guys would like to read something on your prompts? the prompt could be anything ranging from prose to poetry, from specifically instructed starting and/or ending to a loose motif, from imagines of some alternate reality to the mundanity of our lives. by all means, you can go wild in my ask box and post as many as you want, whenever you want. it might take me a little while to get to them but i will do my best to meet your expectations. i hope you drop by and say hello!

-best,

akrati xx

(i am so scared about this post i know hardly anybody cares but i wanted to as well)

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

@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 (why isn't this working)

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)

the faces on cardboard stand so still, so stubborn;

some crooked, grinning, others flushed, skinny.

they perch so distinct yet so similar. so alive in the moment, dead soon after.

what do they say about the bodies they are attached to?

how spontaneous but motionless, such misdirects they create!

some jaws clenched, some eyes flashing red;

they froze the moment but fabricating the abstract sense.

after some sixteen nights,

the bodies live vicariously through the stationary smirks,

touching each other’s arms, rejoicing in

the nihilistic environment they concocted once.

its been several years since they faced the flash,

they have propagated the boards, one for each soul.

now the memory serves only when one roams about the storeroom.

so they do, if roam not often, but once a month.

“the cardboard emits different reflections”, each mutters.

time changed their vision and their power to resist what it brought-

faces on cardboards stand so still, so stubborn,

some crooked, grinning, flushing fiendish forms.

- @akratiisalive

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

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.