A picture of our torn up praise- Aakriti Kuntal

a picture of

Image and writing By Aakriti Kuntal

Your absence is a theater. I grow disproportionate in it.
The winding and unwinding of curtains.
Warm air circulating through my face.
I imagine your body is no more a landscape.
That now it’s a home. A home with
movements and sounds and occupants.
Your arms stretching your lover’s slender body
into a lunar eclipse,
tirelessly eroding my feeble song. My tiny insignificant memory.
There’s been no word from you. Not even a sound.
It is as if your mouth transformed into a black hole
and took the rest of you too.
And I,
only I walk inside it.
Retracing my steps to see if I can
find any palpitating remains of us.
Anything, anything at all
that would explain
these patterned nights, these long long pauses in daylight.
How life has blatantly refused to comply anymore .
And how it has floated to some corner
of the nether sphere
where the sole thought of you is celebrated in adamant silence.
Where even you would now be barred from entering.
Where only I sit
with our sick wobbly songs sprawled all over my lap.
My lucid legs dancing to the tune of your voice.
Widening into a continuous void.
All stars, all planets sucked in.
And I, I all alone,
All alone by myself baby
thinking about us.
Thinking of this throbbing universe of
endless possibilities where we could just not be.

Aakriti Kuntal is a 25-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.  Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.


By Her Implore- Max Meunier

even in this wintry wake

she whispers words untrue


still, i can see

far beyond the walls


where once i knew her


waging wars

within her arms


i could not walk away



to the fragile child


who wept

in shades of fury


these preambles never fade

from light


found in the aftermath


branded by the searing touch

of cruxes


born to bear


no more

do i hear my own voice



through time’s collapse


having been eclipsed

by her implore


Image courtesy of Pinterest


Max states: “I write about the things going on in my life. I am a feminist, humanist, cat loving musician bound by whimsy and the incessant analysis of hyper-vigilant observations. I am obsessed with words and rhythmically woven wordplay.” We are honored to have him as a member of our tribe. He writes at Max Meunier


Guest Blog: Soshinie Singh – Scream

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There is a scream lodged

At the base of my throat

Looming like phlegm

Being rattled by an inner earthquake

That I feel it bubbling up and with it

An entourage of emotions vibrate

Threatening to spill

But yet, I swallow it down in fear

Of what this scream might do,

Should I actually let it out

To tramp on my body’s strength.


[ Soshinie Singh is a West Indian young lady currently residing in the United States of America. Though she suffered heartbreak, she deviates from writing strictly about love and hurt. But she utilizes the lessons she has learnt effectively through her writing. She has a drive to turn anything into an inspiration which many can feast on and boost their morale. There is no fixed time nor place that she writes. Most of the time, the words just come to her and keeping playing on her mind until she can get them down- whether it be on her phone, her iPad or the old fashion way of pen and paper.]


Instagram: @soshiniesingh.author

Facebook: Soshinie A. Singh

Book: The Phoenix Letters: Letters to My Younger Self.

broken-OldePunk/RamJet Poetry

some of us are just broken
born of dust and little disappointments
bleak barrow bones and lamented jewels
made of helpless tears and midnight fears
saltpeter and cobwebs, nickel and newt
lost toys that cost joy
cast of glass and weakness
the forlorn reborn in submission
forced into place even when
the pieces never fit
a cross-threaded screw
muck on the sandal of a forgotten god
a chewed up pen
dull pencil with no eraser
primer painted wagon
with busted wheels
many things of little use
an alchemical composition
turning gold to lead,crack and peel
the Narcissist stone!
you do not understand
as the dead envy the living, so
do the broken hate the anointed, you
as i hate you
as I hate myself
the chipped stone defacing a masterpiece
mold on the Monet
dry rot in the wall
asbestos in the halls
toxic relations and divorces
aria of dissonant discourses
some of us are just broken
one of the unchosen
I am the name it always hurts to say
the reflected shadow at the window pane
you will recall we just were
not the same
the broken one will eat the blame
cherry wood ashes and goat’s hair
shell casings and a hangman’s prayer
the puzzle with the missing pieces
a chill wind that never ceases
bitter pills and wounded pride
all of the shit you try to hide
the hateful words that were spoken
these are the desolate ways
we are broken