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  • ni89gale 3d

    Her story was of few words,
    pronouncing how she ungracefully stumbled over vacuous alphabets,
    drowned herself in the sea of eloquent vocabulary,
    pulling her down vowel by vowel.

    Her story was of few words,
    articulating how she is fighting for survival
    breathing in the oxygen full of metaphors and alliterations
    and gradually rising herself syllable by syllable from the ripples of mediocrity.

    Her story was just of few words.

  • ni89gale 1w

    Whispers of war within herself
    confined her brain constantly,
    making her a victim
    of her own imagination
    and succumbing her
    pen and poetries to
    become collateral damage.

  • ni89gale 1w

    She fought her battles gallantly.
    Creating vibrant rainbows
    on the treacherous path,
    by absorbing every
    blue and black scar
    inherited from
    home she made out
    of people.

  • ni89gale 2w

    You were the
    vibrant rainbow,
    in my bitter sky.

    @mirakee @writersnetwork

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    It was snowing in summer
    deep in her heavy heart.
    And all she wished was
    this winter to forever last.

  • ni89gale 2w

    Do you think
    flowers wither in
    empty fields with guilt?
    Guilt of making you
    fall for a lie that
    love, like them
    exists forever.

    Do you think
    words lament too,
    in melancholic voice,
    beyond the silent meadows
    at three in the morning
    to match the sound of
    your heart falling apart ?

  • ni89gale 3w

    This human world runs on its own,
    in cynical and barbaric ways.
    It encourages you to show
    the traits of an open book,
    scrutinizes you letter by letter,
    syllable by syllable,
    underline their favourite words,
    smudge the corners of
    their cherished pages,
    tear out the treasured parts
    from the paper's flesh,
    leaving a perpetual void
    and then toss you in the dark attic,
    because stories with
    tragic endings are not
    what humans desire.

  • ni89gale 3w

    Last night when
    Moon surfaced on the twilight,
    she told me secrets
    from her pandora box.
    Like how she befriended darkness,
    And glimmer in all her phases.

    But choked on her words
    when I asked about you.

    Did you pick fight with her?
    Because she doesn't talk about you
    anymore, like she used to.

    @mirakee @writersnetwork

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    Did you pick fight
    with the moon?

    She doesn't talk
    about you

  • ni89gale 3w


    He wasn't an art like me or you,
    He retains his own colors which the universe didn't know.

    He didn't see the dreams dressed in black and white,
    For him it was all grey and faded shades of night.

    He travelled beyond the pragmatic realms far-fetched from cliché,
    His words wasn't fabricated from the redundant orthodoxical papier mache!

    This world needs to savor more of his unparalleled uniqueness than you or me,
    Let Branthan, the mad man create an arcane scintilla of wisdom with glee!

  • ni89gale 3w


  • ni89gale 4w

    The irony is -
    They saw poetry in her
    proses and metaphors!

    But for her it was in
    Moon creating chaos in oceans,
    Sunsets on the sea shores,
    Laburnum flowers blooming on the sidewalk,
    Wilting red and brown leaf in autumn,
    Infant giggles,
    The fading smiles,
    The gut-wrenching heartbreaks,
    The good old tales of grandparents,
    The hope inside to heal.

    For her, the poetry was Everywhere!