akkriti

[akkriti]

I keep you so safely hidden in my memories that sometimes I dream you’re still alive.

And, I know you’re not. But, it’s been 2 years and I still don’t know how to feel this overflowing grief inside of me, suffocating me into throbbing pain, and unflattering tears.

How do I treat it?

Do I keep it inside of me like a bed of roses and let the thorns fracture every bone in my body,

Or do I keep it as a burning fire, a threat, a rage to myself,

A tragedy with the moral saying that you’ll never be in my arms ever again.

How do I treat all this ignored love inside of me that’s suffocating me so much?

I keep telling people, that there’s a difference between acceptance and liking,

That we must never mix the two,

That we must accept things even if we don’t like them.

And yet, it’s 1:11am, 2 years later, and I still wish on your name,

Come back to me, even if in my dreams, I will love you still.

I hope you’re happy in heaven, I hope you know,

That if the world was ending and you’d wiggle your tail around me,

I would smile before dying, I would let the earth consume me consensually,

Satisfied, at peace.

That I do not know the difference yet between good and bad, that I am still a child,

I’m merely 15 and I carry my heart on my sleeve, I cry, whenever I speak about you.

About your last, tired, glance at me,

About the way you fell into coma and were washed away with a river,

Yet these tears never seem to wash away from my eyes because I carry your heaviness still in them because I cannot fathom what pain you felt.

Moreover because I would lose my mind if I felt it, knowing you, without being able to speak a word to me, felt it.

I would give my entire soul, passion, desire, For knowing in my heart, you’re safe now.

And we may never be able to meet each other again,

But, you’re in a better place in haven,

Still,

I will wait for you, even if for an eternity more,

I will find my way back to you,

I will wait for you,

Always.

[akkriti]

I Think Words Are Such Beautiful Entities.

Carved out of my lips and yours too, sculpted by our emotions like tiny little statues. There is no arch of your finger or the swift and subtle movement of your hands when you sculpt them, there is not a single sculptor from the time when Greek gods had been canvassed into antique masterpieces that could question the legitimacy of these entities of words. You do it so softly, so gently, how intimately each and every letter of each and every marvellous word is connected to the muscles of your brain and now maybe mine too because I am partially astounded by the beauty of the sentences you craft, and even more I am pulled towards this magnetic void somehow filling every inch of my empty heart so effortlessly, I would get lost in that void just to see you craft those letters again, just to find those sculpted masterpieces be revived from your mind, just once more if I could have a sight of those statues.

“I love you”

Such three simple and pretty words as one would call them, one of the greatest promises that existed but for me, each time I say that I love you, the entity that escapes my mouth, from my sweet soft lips, make a deal and greet yours. On days it's just a handshake,

“Love you”

Other days it's a hug, given more in the form of those three simple words more beautifully, more adoringly, more closely, prettily, vividly.

“I love you.”

So dearly.

[akkriti]

I read a quote that said “all that we every do, is so that we can feel loved and be loved.”

Do we eventually just become who or what we love too?

Does a poet become his poetry?

words of fiction, existing in the realm of reality,

Do all the poems come to life in their minds eventually,

Engulfing their sanity and soul as a whole as if it wasn’t already ready to be stretched and broken apart and let to fly and reach things far beyond the mellow skies,

Let go of your realism and you’ll realise this world too is a simulation.

Does an artist eventually become his very own art too?

No, not confined to the corners of the canvas,

Do they in the end just become their own muse,

Their paints and their strokes?

So when each time they walk down the very same road where they saw their first inspiration,

The birds in the far stretched sky, till the infinity,

One day just realise maybe their minds are the universe closer to them than the one they are living in,

And that, that is when they are the extraordinary magic they create so comfortably.