ni89gale

On to better things. ��

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  • ni89gale 4d

    There are days when
    I wake up from a
    nightmare, wanting to
    experience it all over again
    so I can neatly
    objectify it on paper.

    There are days
    when I want to capture
    the messy vulnerability
    of dark clouds that are dying to
    explode and make love to rain
    in 45° C scorching summer.

    There are days
    when I want to
    fly above my problems
    and see them becoming
    small proportionally
    just to experience a
    momentary happiness.

    There are days
    when I want to
    dig graves
    for pen and
    paper, because
    weighing stories
    in everyone's eyes
    made my hands sore.

    There are days
    when I get this
    constant urge to
    Write anything
    about everything
    making me claustrophobic.

    Over the years
    my human body
    has become an
    airplane carrying
    myriad of emotions
    flying destinations
    after destinations
    just to know
    how it is to feel free
    and touch the sky.
    ©ni89gale
    ----------------------------------------
    Picture Credits - Me (Very rare! I know! )

    Not proof read. Point if any mistakes.
    Also lame. Just wanted to post the picture *grins*

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  • ni89gale 1w

    Do you smell rust in the words here? I do. I do.
    Also, I am pretty crazy!

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    Do you think Alexander the great
    must have loved another horse after
    his favourite Bucephalus died?
    I wonder if the second horse
    perished due to lack of love.

    Do you think the world just
    resented Charles Bukowski
    for his honesty?
    I wonder if he really
    did die of leukaemia.

    Do you think the artist in Sylvia Plath
    always desired 'that someone'
    who didn't burn her last journal and
    claimed her words.
    I wonder if her last poetry
    with saline stained hands ever
    wrote a happy ending.
    // Things That Keeps Me Awake At Night //
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 1w

    People always told
    me if destruction had
    a face, it would be
    very similar to mine.

    Those feelings currently
    residing in my head
    are refugees that fled
    their home, my
    savagely violent heart.

    That my eyes saw
    nothing but war and
    darkness,
    my hands stench of
    impatience with
    catastrophe engraved
    on the flesh of them.

    That my half felt smile
    always looked guilty
    for the casualties
    laid by my mouth.

    That my soul is hiding
    behind the veil
    of metaphors born
    out of tragedies.

    People always told
    me if destruction had
    a face, it would be
    very similar to mine.
    I always agreed
    because I failed to
    find a word that could
    suffice all these.
    ©ni89gale
    -------------------------------------
    #pod #fiction
    @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    People always told
    me if destruction had
    a face, it would be
    very similar to mine.
    I always agreed
    because I failed to
    find a word that could
    suffice all these.
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 2w

    Sometimes I wonder if
    Vincent Van Gogh could
    have healed himself without
    cutting his left ear off in temper.
    I am afraid if the world
    sought perfection from
    him and his paintings,
    only after he lost
    his own significance.

    Sometimes I wonder if
    the moon feels a little
    claustrophobic among
    many of the luminous stars.
    I am afraid she has the
    strong urge to surrender and
    forever abandon the night sky.

    Sometimes I wonder
    If my words are
    famished and suffering
    from the lack of imagination.
    I am afraid they will
    bleed red and die,
    and all that is left of me
    will be a mannequin of
    flesh and bones.
    //Alive Yet Lifeless//
    ©ni89gale
    ----------------------------------------------
    @writersnetwork @mirakee
    #pod

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    Sometimes I wonder
    If my words are
    famished and suffering
    from the lack of imagination.
    I am afraid they will
    bleed red and die,
    and all that is left of me
    will be a mannequin of
    flesh and bones.
    //Alive Yet Lifeless//
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 2w

    As I a child,
    I always chose
    blue crayon
    for the sky and
    green for the grass.
    My sunrise was
    orange and pink,
    while the sea was embellished
    with golden fishes.
    I didn't even touch
    the snow on the top
    of the glacier.
    It was supposed
    to be sacred.

    As I grew up,
    the blue sky was smudged
    with black smog.
    The trees and
    the green grass
    were now homeless,
    struggling to find a place
    amidst thirty-storey buildings.
    The sunrises and sunsets
    seeing all this,
    hid themselves
    in the shame.

    I could foresee a world
    where water will be as
    precious as gold,
    count fishes under the
    list of extinct animals
    because plastics
    weren't in their menu.

    The colourless snow
    on top of the glaciers,
    melted slowly,
    destroyed the gates
    of humanity.
    Maybe they took
    their revenge from us,
    for de-colouring
    the mother earth.

    Nature came with
    a fixed set of terms
    and conditions,
    still, I see the world,
    us humans
    sinking and decaying
    digged our own grave
    with our very own hands.
    // Climate Change is Real //
    ©ni89gale
    -----------------------
    @writersnetwork @mirakee #pod

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    On one obligation-less night
    I saw the mighty earth,
    grasped in the talons of
    animal called human,
    struggling and weeping
    to get out of the hold
    and breathe.

    The very next moment
    I saw the human
    race slowly decaying,
    and choking on
    their own actions.
    And this time,
    the mighty earth is
    all prepared to
    win the battle.
    // Humans < Humanity //
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 3w

    You always complained
    about how
    unobservant I was.

    But,
    Did I ever tell you,
    the first time we
    hugged each other,
    you smelled like
    freshly brewed coffee.

    Did I tell you,
    how the skin around
    your eyes crinkled
    while you laugh at
    my silly jokes.

    Did I tell you,
    about the time
    you held me tightly
    in your arms,
    because you were
    afraid of amusement
    park rides.

    Did I tell you,
    how my poems
    couldn't reach
    their climax
    Because you
    ended our story.

    Did I tell you,
    how your brown
    and warm eyes
    always whispered
    the tales of how
    you are going to
    break my reckless heart.

    Did I tell you,
    I ran away
    because I
    started feeling
    too much.

    Did I tell you,
    how love is for
    the brave and honest.
    I and my words
    are not both of them.
    Love isn't meant
    for us.


    Also, did I tell you,
    my sheets still smell
    like your coffee lips,
    and your memories
    like dead lavender.
    // Love and Honesty //
    ©ni89gale
    ----------------------------------
    #pod
    @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    I carve and reserve
    a particular
    face and end
    for each story
    and individual.

    Sometimes I cheat
    on those faces,
    and stand bare
    in the heat of
    your discerning eyes.

    Sometimes I don't.
    Because I am
    afraid.
    // Love and Honesty //
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 3w

    There resides a poet
    in each one of us.
    Some imagining and
    sculpting poetries on paper
    while some being the
    tragically beautiful poetries,
    themselves.
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 3w

    The love in her
    gentle eyes and
    fierce poetries
    can drown the
    mighty oceans.
    // Power //
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 3w

    There are thoughts and words
    juggling inside my head,
    wanting and threatening me
    to neatly arrange them
    on the paper's flesh.

    I tried.
    I tried writing poetry.
    But I couldn't.

    Maybe my words
    were furious at me,
    for the times I chose to
    ignore them and lamely
    termed it as ' writer's block '.

    Or it must be the paper,
    too tired to be wrinkled
    again and adorn the bin
    placed in the darkest
    corner of my room.

    I don't know.
    But I couldn't write.
    // Of Writer's Block //
    ©ni89gale
    -------------------------------------------------------
    @writersnetwork @mirakee #pod

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    Maybe my words
    were furious at me,
    for the times I chose
    to ignore them and lamely
    termed it as ' writer's block '.

    Or it must be the paper,
    too tired to be wrinkled again
    and adorn the bin
    placed in the darkest
    corner of my room.

    I don't know.
    But I couldn't write.
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 3w

    Water is as cruel as humans.
    Maybe that is why we could relate.

    @writersnetwork @mirakre #pod

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    I stood on the shore and
    wondered, why people
    search calmness in
    ocean and its waves.

    I have seen water
    destroying homes and humans,
    drowning every emotion,
    submerging everything good,
    and tossing the carcass of
    dead on the shore.

    Later, I saw them embracing
    the beautiful massacre
    of water as their own.

    Water is as cruel as humans.
    // Perspective //
    ©ni89gale