ni89gale

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  • ni89gale 5d

    There are many
    tragedies in this world
    some carried out
    by humans,
    some by God himself.
    One such was when
    Zeus condemned
    humans to spend
    their entire lives in
    search of their
    other halves,
    giving power in
    the hands of one
    to destroy and
    deceive the other.

    You left and I
    am ruined now.
    // The Better Half //
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 1w

    You told me if
    my untold poetry
    had a face it would be
    similar to mine or
    of a person dying
    thousand deaths
    and still smiling.

    I still didn't understand
    if you personified my
    poem or death.
    [ Personification ]

    One day you bought
    me a bouquet of blooming
    greige flowers and said
    this reminded you
    of our love.

    Looking closely all I
    could see was grey
    ashes and soot of
    our burnt and buried love.
    [ Metaphor ]

    You told me I was
    your 11:11 wish,
    that my poetries and
    plays liberated certain
    kind of happiness.

    Late at night, I often
    found you crying
    reading them and
    clicking pictures at
    11:12.
    Your 11:11 knew I
    was just a
    forethought of grief.
    [ Irony ]
    ©ni89gale
    ------------------------------
    @writersnetwork @mirakee #pod

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    My poetries, plays
    and heartache taste
    like nothingness
    with wisp of love that
    drenched and drowned
    everyone who visited her.
    [ Alliteration ]
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 2w

    Perhaps poetry became people that leave,
    slowly bearing all you give her.
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 2w

    She once told me that
    yellow and orange
    in the sun frightens her,
    that people dressed
    as sunlight with too
    much hope burns her.
    But all I could see
    was her smile,
    genuine smile whenever
    she gazes at those
    yellow sunflowers.

    She told me she hated
    green grass on the
    battlegrounds,
    that red dripping from
    her arms stains the green
    reminding her of a
    bruised blue dream.
    But all I could see
    was a green piece of land
    with heartbreaks blooming
    like flowers.

    She told me if someday
    she ever painted hope,
    It would be violet,
    purple and lilac,
    the same as of
    the setting sun in the
    darkest stage of twilight.
    But all I could see
    was her, with fading
    purple bruises and
    sheer resemblance of
    'HOPE' walking down
    the path of kindness
    I wish to walk every day.

    She told me she sees
    herself trapped in
    Poseidon's realm,
    on the brink of death.
    But all I saw was
    rainbow in her veins.
    ©ni89gale
    -------------------------------

    @writersnetwork @mirakee #pod

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    She told me she sees herself
    trapped in Poseidon's realm,
    on the brink of death.
    But all I saw was
    rainbow in her veins.
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 2w

    Sometimes poetry
    means nothing
    until someone
    lives in them
    and hears the
    chaos in your mind!
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 3w

    I re-decorated my
    new house today.
    I couldn't stay in
    ours any longer now.
    It smelled like you
    and our lost arguments.

    I vaguely remember
    why we loved each other
    so much but I do remember
    you wrapping your arms
    around me At 3:00 AM
    when the air of vulnerability
    surrounded me.

    I vaguely remember
    why we fought, but
    I do remember allegations
    and screaming.

    You always called
    our love story
    a bestseller and
    I disagreed.
    But now,
    It was. A book filled
    with metaphors for
    what this world
    would coin
    heartbreaks for.

    I vaguely remember
    anything and everything.
    Your misery and my frustration.
    Your frustration and my misery.

    Perhaps it was
    not 'L-O-V-E'
    we fall for.
    Maybe it was
    Folie à Deux.
    Us having an
    Identical delusion
    believing something
    is true which clearly
    could not be.
    ©ni89gale
    --------------------------------
    @writersnetwork @mirakee #pod

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    Folie à Deux

    Perhaps it was not 'L-O-V-E' we fall for.
    Maybe it was Folie à Deux. Us having an identical delusion believing something is true which clearly could not be.
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 4w

    I always wondered
    where poetry was born.

    Was it born while
    Van Gogh was painting
    'Starry Night Over The Rhone'?
    Was it born when
    Charles Bukowski decided
    to be brutally honest?
    Or it was when Sylvia plath
    submitted her thesis
    'The Magic Mirror' after
    getting electroconvulsive
    therapy for fighting
    depression after months.

    Was it in the pain
    and havoc that the moon
    created dejected by
    the idea of never meeting
    his unrequited lover Sea.
    Was it born right after
    that shooting star fall
    from the sky,
    maybe in love or tragedy.
    Or was poetry born when
    you decided to keep grief
    and sadness within yourself?

    I always wondered
    where poetry was born.
    ©ni89gale
    ---------------------------------------
    #pod @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    I always wondered where poetry was born.
    Was it born when you decided to keep grief and sadness within yourself?
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 4w

    I read somewhere if
    you are suffering from
    writer's block write daily.
    I started writing this
    poetry /prose 3 days ago
    and I am still writing it,
    reminding me how
    I use to read a 300 page
    book in 3 days and now
    It takes me 3 months
    to do the same.

    I started writing this poem
    about rediscovering stars and
    those rare northern lights,
    about how maybe these
    words could levitate the
    glooming sadness
    around the infrastructure
    of my imagination,
    forgetting that I spend
    more hours in speaking
    business rather than
    making love to words.

    I couldn't complete it
    that day and I still,
    haven't done it yet
    and like every adult
    I just filed it up as
    bullet on the next
    week to-do list.

    There is a common
    pattern of struggle
    between those unfamiliar
    faces in empty rooms,
    all at the same time
    trying to unravel
    the knots of confusion
    beneath and finding a home
    in all the chaos rattling
    around in categories that
    couldn't do justice to them.

    Growing up does
    things to you,
    It makes you good
    at adulting, organizing
    and helps you master
    the art of wearing labels
    until you feel this is
    where you belong.
    //Of Adjustments And Life//
    ©ni89gale
    -------------------------------

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    A. D. U. L. T. I. N. G.

    Growing up does
    things to you,
    It makes you
    good at adulting,
    organizing and helps
    you master the art
    of wearing labels until
    you feel this is
    where you belong.
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 6w

    I have always
    been told
    words are empty
    and cold, I
    always disagreed.

    Space and home,
    words provided my
    refugee heart
    and memories
    smells like hope.

    Can home and hope
    be cold and empty?
    ~°~

    I have always
    been told words
    tend to deceive
    you, I always disagreed.

    Whenever there are
    casualties laid by
    actions, words
    soothed my scarred
    soul and pushed
    me one step closer
    to find my sanity.

    Words have done
    enough for me.
    The kindness in
    them is like a
    light after death.

    Can kindness be deceptive?
    ~°~
    I have always
    been told
    it is a sin to
    fall in love
    with a writer.
    The rebel in
    me did.

    I am irrevocably
    in love with myself.
    Every poem I
    write fades the
    sadness in me
    syllable by syllable,
    word by word.
    //Finding comfort in strange things//
    ©ni89gale
    ---------------------
    If any mistakes, point out.

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    I have always
    been told
    words are empty
    and cold, I
    always disagreed.

    Words are more
    human than humans
    can ever be.
    //Finding comfort in strange things//
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 7w

    I easily lose directions and ways.
    On my way back home from school, I use to memorize landmarks in between like the tall green gigantic tree, a pothole on the left side of the road and finally the smile, book store owner gave me,
    I memorized everything all in fear of being lost.

    I got lost today. I am not able to find those landmarks.
    That tall green gigantic tree is now staring at me with hollow eyes, too tired of all the weight on his dead branch. He decided to break down. My living room has a centre table made of it.
    I couldn't see it though. I never reached home.
    I lost my landmark.

    I walked ahead in search of that tiny pothole, that depression in the road surface. To my surprise, I found plenty. The road was now filled with potholes.
    Apparently, the humans forgot to fill one, blamed him for hurting them and he got angry. Now they are on strike. Each and every on the road demanded an apology from humans for never being accountable for their actions.
    I don't know which way to go now.
    Every time I try to take a step I fall into the pits which somehow I dug.

    I tried moving further with bleeding hands and heart thinking that smile of the bookkeeper will brighten my day and lead me home. I walk to the book store and patiently wait for him to come out. I waited. I waited for a long time. No one came out. I saw a paper hanging on the side
    ' Place On Rent. Call +91-**-***-***** for further details.'
    I tried to reason myself as to why he would sell this place. I remembered the smile, making me realize that wasn't out of courtesy but loneliness.
    Maybe If I wasn't too busy remembering the way to the destination, I would have saved this landmark. A smile doesn't hurt anyone they say, to me it did. It made me guilty. Guilty of not saving someone who always provided a sense of security in me while I was walking back home.

    I took that paper with me and continued walking. I found my home 643 steps later. It was still the same but wasn't at the same time.
    //Different Directions Can Change Destinations. //
    ©ni89gale

    ------
    #rant #temp

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    Different Directions
    Can Change Destinations.
    ©ni89gale