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  • ni89gale 1w

    " What is your favourite colour? "
    " Yellow! "

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    My mother told me
    colour of hope
    is always yellow,
    bright and cheerful.
    From past 3 years,
    I gaze at the sunset
    to find a tiny speckle
    of yellow in the
    lilac sky.
    (I couldn't.
    I realized I don't
    yellow anymore.)

    He told me
    colour of intimacy
    is always yellow.
    We sleep on our
    favourite yellow
    bedsheet every night
    and the aura of
    intimacy seems
    to be fading
    every time I wash it.
    (Your hugs have
    stopped feeling
    warm now.
    I don't use those
    bed covers anymore.)

    Sometimes it becomes
    impossible to love
    or even like your
    favourite colour.
    (Sometimes it is
    okay to think the sun
    doesn't rise and
    shine for you. )

  • ni89gale 2w

    I have tons of beautiful
    artsy pictures saved
    in my phone's gallery,
    of humans, books and quotes,
    all of them
    screaming of love.

    I tried to un-love them,
    humans, books and quotes
    all of them together.
    But every time I made
    an attempt to
    delete one,
    1/100 part of me
    felt less happy
    and more dead.

    Slowly, those tiny speckles
    of thumbnails
    became all of me.
    The amount of love I
    carry inside me is
    now equally proportional
    to how much of you
    is caged inside my gallery.

    Next time we meet
    and out of curiosity
    you wish to know how
    much my empty carcass
    of heart loves you ,
    ask me for
    pictures of you.
    I am sure you will
    get your answer
    amidst plethora
    of doubts.

    Picture credits: Pinterest

    #cringy #lame #temp

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  • ni89gale 3w

    Someone told me
    write about them
    and you will
    get over it.

    I tattooed my
    skin with permanent ink.
    I can't take it off now,
    I scratched, I peeled.
    Red.. Purple.. Black.
    It is all bloted
    and now it hurts.

    Sometimes writing
    isn't the solution.

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    Sometimes I see
    parts of me scattered
    in someone else,
    All I want is to
    blot them onto
    my skin and
    never let it go.

    But what they never
    told me, is that
    the one I want
    the most,
    will lose it's
    pigmentation and
    fade away
    more quickly!

    The failed peeling
    red skin taught me
    me these tenants
    will leave me at
    my darkest, that
    they don't deserve
    a permanent place.

    So every week now
    I rub, scrape and
    shed the old
    red and purple
    skin, to see who
    and what
    fades the earliest.
    Who and what
    might feel right.

  • ni89gale 3w

    It has been too long
    I wrote something.
    The metaphors and
    ironies inside
    are mutilating
    my gut now.

    The rain, the books,
    the azure waterfalls or
    even the rare northern
    lights couldn't find
    a purpose for
    my pen to flow.

    Maybe stabbing the same
    pen inside my gut will
    free the caged syllables
    and they will dance on
    the graveyards of poetry
    I deliberately abandoned.

    I can't spend another
    night knowing I
    can't /won't write.
    I want to breathe.


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    Not writing for too long
    and wanting to breathe
    freely is a lethal combination.

  • ni89gale 4w

    The stray dogs never
    let me play with them.
    Do you think they
    know I abandoned my
    13 years old dog
    and didn't pet her properly
    on the day she died
    because I was getting
    late for college.
    Had I stayed back,
    a little longer she
    might have died
    a little less?

    From childhood I
    dreamt of travelling
    the world and
    breathing in peace.
    I couldn't get a holiday
    this summer to go home.
    Do you think my home
    is punishing me for
    always neglecting and
    using her even though
    the only place I slept in
    peace was there.
    // Of Punishments And Regrets //

  • ni89gale 4w

    [Cliché Alert. Read at your own will]


    As a child, I developed
    this strange theory
    in my head,
    Of labelling monumental
    things and people
    I want to forget
    as numbers.


    I had a habit of
    confining everything
    I create and love.
    The rose he gave me,
    the first boy I ever loved
    now smells of realization
    is still stuck between
    abandoned poetries.

    Sometimes I use
    it as dead weight.


    Moving to new cities
    and abandoning home
    is still a foreign concept
    to my unripe mind.
    Still, I found comfort
    and slept peacefully
    on the left side of
    stranger's bed who ran
    away as the sun rose.

    I still sleep on the left side
    and on the right sleeps
    hope of him returning.


    Mangoes, Ice creams
    and men with unique names
    have always been my soft spot.

    I always told you blue eyes and
    one in a million name is
    my favourite poetry combination.
    I didn't know I was digging
    a grave for people with
    honey brown eyes and
    cliché names,
    For myself.

    Or maybe I consumed too
    much of you in winter,
    and now suffering from sore
    throat in 45°C scorching heat.


    Skipping step while climbing
    down even knowing the probability
    of falling down and hurting is more,
    is still my favourite habit.

    Some people are easy to love.
    Some very difficult.
    Some meant to be.
    Some not meant to be.
    With my bleeding heart
    I proudly stand in
    the category of those,
    who willingly attempt
    not to stand anywhere.
    // Of All The Boys I Ever Loved //
    @dejavu_ Is this too much cliché and cringy for you?
    Apologies in advance to you and everyone who reads it.

    Picture Credits : Pinterest

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  • ni89gale 5w

    One warm morning
    people saw a girl
    jumping off a
    multistorey building.
    They gasped.
    They cried.

    One warm morning
    I saw a bag of
    dejected dream
    free falling and
    becoming lighter
    with every floor
    in an attempt to
    finally touch the
    concrete floor
    greased with hope
    And freedom.

    Do you think gravity
    feels guilty for
    causing free fall
    every time?

  • ni89gale 5w

    All the eyes glued to the screen.
    The next second, screen flashes


    As per convention
    this society lays,
    I chose MEN and hit Play.

    I see men in suits
    tailored out of hypocrisy
    and pretence,
    making women feel
    uncomfortable for her
    naked truths.
    I see men choking
    their inhibitions every day,
    in dark and dawn.
    I see women trying
    to press the snooze button
    every day, in dark and dawn.

    I hear men laughing and
    women sighing,
    I hit the SNOOZE button
    and returned to the home screen.

    All the eyes glued to the screen.
    The next second, screen flashes


    Not to repeat the same
    mistake again,
    I chose WOMEN and hit play.

    At a restaurant,
    I saw the waiter directly
    passing the bill to the 'Man',
    as it is always expected of
    him to pay because
    he is a 'man'.

    I saw a girl getting
    upset for being called
    chubby while she
    constantly teases her
    'skinny' best friend.
    I never knew body shaming
    is gender specific.

    I hear men sighing and
    women laughing,
    I hit the SNOOZE button
    and returned to the home screen.

    All the eyes glued to the screen.
    The next second, screen flashes


    With no option left,
    I abandoned the game,
    all in the hope of seeing
    a third option 'Human'
    somewhere inside
    'Men' and 'Women'.
    // Bandersnatch //
    This is sort of inspired by bandersnatch, an interactive film in the science fiction anthology series Black Mirror available on netflix.

    Picture Credits : Pinterest

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    All the eyes glued to the screen.
    The next second, screen flashes


    What will you choose?
    // Bandersnatch //

  • ni89gale 6w

    I envy people who
    write about love
    and bake stories without
    getting lost on the way,
    let alone allowing
    the starved like me
    to devour on those
    little pieces of delicacies.

    As a reflex that people
    and lessons taught me,
    I puke everything out.
    The meal, it was delicious,
    carefully baked with
    perfect conditioning.
    Just like always, it was my
    weak digestive system.

    Over the years my tongue
    has acquired a taste
    for junk stories and
    foreign lips,
    each time tormenting
    the stomach.
    My stomach is now
    acting as a rebel,
    not accepting anything,
    everything anyone
    and everyone.

    Sometimes I wake up
    from deep slumber
    too exhausted from
    all the resisting,
    starving and cravings.
    All the saccharine
    delicacies just within
    the reach of my hand
    and still, I sleep famished.
    All over again.

    I envy people who
    write about love
    and bake stories
    without getting sick
    on the way.
    // Sickness And Love //
    @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    ' Not Falling In Love '
    isn't just a
    poetic metaphor.
    People like me,
    with worn out smiles
    and weak stomach
    respond to that
    circadian rhythm daily.

  • ni89gale 6w

    1. I heard this strange theory
    that humans die and become stars.
    I am quite sure I couldn't be one.
    Stars tend to get hotter and
    warmer towards the core,
    whereas voyage inside me will always
    lead you to my cold heart.

    2. At midnight, I saw an anxious dog
    chasing a fast moving vehicle even
    though he knew he couldn't outrun
    the latter.
    That dog somehow reminded me of
    human beings, trying to run away
    from their problems even though deep
    down they knew there
    was no escape to it.

    3. Laws of physics state that
    sound cannot travel in vacuum.
    It explains why storms raging
    inside my gut at 4:00 AM always
    reach the deaf ears.
    // Midnight And Rants //