ni89gale

On to good things ! ��

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  • ni89gale 6w

    Hola! I hope everyone is safe and sound wherever they are! :)

    I tried penning something positive. The keyword bring "tried" here! Read at your own risk!
    #temp

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    What do you think
    a perfect poetry
    looks or feels like?

    Is it that wide beaming
    smile of lovers captured
    in those faded
    sun-drenched polaroid.

    Or does it look like
    that teary stained smile
    where you decide to put
    everything back together
    in the span of one deep breath.

    Or is it the quaint stories
    that your grandmother narrated
    in the summertime tangling
    all your thoughts into art.

    Or is it just the scratching
    sound of the pen against paper,
    or of you and your poems
    rising from the pile of old ashes.

    What do you think
    a perfect poetry
    looks or feels like?
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 14w

    Hola !
    I hope everyone is keeping well.

    This is just what my rusted pen could come up with! xD

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    I always wonder
    what happens to
    abandoned poetries.
    and people.

    Do they find homes
    in people with heavy hearts
    and their habits or
    Do they make hearts
    so inhabitable that you
    can't live there yourself.

    Do they make metaphors
    seem like a mere word or
    Do they make it a succession
    of laughable errors
    imprisoning infinity.

    Do they still
    smell of beloved
    Or do they stink and feel
    like hiraeth now.

    I always wonder
    what happens to
    abandoned poetries.
    and people.
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 33w

    In another world,
    I will write a poetry
    that will not be
    about pain, grief,
    sadness or death.

    A poem where
    spaces between words
    didn't look like
    graveyards of emotions.
    A poem whose
    belly is filled with
    butterflies and pixie
    dust and not with every
    kind of ache.
    A poem whose arms
    engulfed every sinner
    and painted each of
    their sin as a
    beautiful Metaphor.

    Someday I will write
    a poem with a face
    remotely resembling
    happiness.
    A face for which
    Picasso was resurrected
    from his deep sleep.

    A poetry that is the
    result of everything
    that is left,
    right in this world.
    // A Happy Poem//
    ©ni89gale

    @writersnetwork @mirakee #poetry

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    In another world
    I will write a poetry that
    will not be about pain, grief,
    sadness or death.
    A poetry that is the
    result of everything
    that is left,
    right in this world.
    // A Happy Poem//
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 35w

    As I was growing up
    the stories I heard about
    love started getting strange.

    I always felt
    love was a sense
    of comfort,
    like meeting a
    stranger on a foreign
    land who speaks
    your native language
    with utter fluency.
    But what I never
    knew was,
    when my story will
    reach its climax,
    its inevitable end,
    I will forget how
    to communicate,
    making me forever
    mute and vacuous.

    I thought I knew
    how to narrate
    happiness and love
    in eleven languages.
    As I grew up I recited
    sadness in eleven
    different eulogies
    on the grave of love.

    They told me
    love always comes
    dressed in the cloak
    of relief and solace,
    like downpour
    that soothes your
    bruises and cracks
    on a warm day.

    I am still waiting for
    this incessant rain
    filled with unending rage
    and ruins of a distant
    past to stop.
    This downpour of love
    just didn't know
    how to use punctuations,
    when to stop, when to start.

    As I was growing up
    the stories I heard about
    love started getting strange.
    I always wondered
    should love be
    counted as the
    eighth sin?
    I am still waiting for
    someone to recite
    this story.
    ©ni89gale
    -------------------------------
    @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    As I was growing up the stories I heard about love started getting strange.
    I always wondered should love be counted as the eighth sin?
    I am still waiting for someone to recite this story.
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 35w

    At night my poetry sounds like
    shipwrecked song with layers of
    secrets about manifestation of
    untamable humans and
    their subsequent
    restorations.
    ©ni89gale

  • ni89gale 35w

    The world offered itself
    as a home to him,
    full of imagination
    and liberty.

    Michael tried to
    build a happy
    home there,
    ignoring the
    fake prejudice,
    bigotry and
    narrow mindedness.

    He was always told,
    moon and stars are
    supposed to be together,
    Moon and sea were
    just a mere acquaintance.
    That X loving Y is normal,
    X adoring X is a sin.
    That if the moon starts
    loving the sea,
    this world,
    his 'home'
    will wreak havoc.

    That his normal is NOT NORMAL.

    Micheal again tried to
    build a happy home
    in the embers of doubt
    with walls painted
    in colors of
    " Is it me? "
    " Is it a disease? "
    " Is it just an illusion? "
    with his porcelain
    hands joined,
    with silent tremors
    and screams of
    prayers to God
    to fix him.

    Michael tried.
    Numerous times.
    But was marred
    and stifled
    as the world
    'his home' gazed
    at him with
    total contempt.

    Micheal died,
    with a hope,
    as a survivor
    trying to built
    a happy home,
    where another Micheal
    can love Micheal,
    where they don't have
    to hide behind the
    curtains to do
    what they want,
    where no one
    will look at them
    like there is something wrong,
    Where they can self embrace
    that sometimes the
    moon craves the sea,
    not the stars
    and that is NORMAL!
    ©ni89gale
    ----------------------------------------
    An amateur attempt to make a difference. (:
    #home #pride #pod @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    Everytime someone steps up
    and says who they are,
    The world just becomes a
    better, more interesting place.
    - Captain Raymond Holt

  • ni89gale 36w

    I always had
    this perception that
    the best way to
    end any poetry
    was grief and death,
    that the metaphors
    hiding behind those
    soft coloured flowers
    on grave just
    exhibited remorse
    and regret,
    those eulogies on
    funerals were
    just a poetic lie
    and the unfinished
    poetry lying dead
    on the casket was
    just an adjective
    of ache.

    But my stubborn
    optimistic mind
    always believed
    that these poetries
    will someday witness
    a happy ending,
    an ending that
    everyone desired.
    //Raison D'etre//
    ©ni89gale
    ----------------------------
    Picture Credit : Branthan

    @writersnetwork @mirakee #pod

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    Raison d'etre
    // Reasons
    For Existence //

  • ni89gale 37w

    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 38w

    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 38w

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