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Iqmal Oct 2013
she's like the
cerulean sky
so picturesque
so beautiful
we see her everyday
yet she's unappreciated.

she rains her sadness
onto us
clouding the once beautiful grass
with grey blankets that
covers all;
yet we umbrella
not knowing her sadness
never knowing her sadness

and so she shouts
all her dire thoughts
with a bright streak
to call us
to listen to her.

yet we
cover our ears
resisting the urge
to hear her plea
and we cover our eyes
to blind ourselves
from seeing her sad face

and despite all these,
she pretends to be happy for our sake;
casting colourful arches across her face.
and that was the only time she felt
as if people were looking at her smile
even if the arch was for a while.
Iqmal Oct 2013
all the insipid thoughts
slip through
these sarcoline cracks
made to trickle down
and to
through the soils
for men
to dig them out.
"funny how you're dead
then people start listening"
- The Band Perry, If I Die Young.
Iqmal Oct 2013
he stood in class
drowned by lust.

his wrist was the canvas
the razor was the paintbrush.

he had the colours around him
the colours that spills and
finishes when you need them.

but he wants to paint

and so he did.

he started to paint
the most absolute picture seen

to the ones around
self harm

to him
he was merely

a painter.
Iqmal Oct 2013
mom is knocking furiously on my door
but i can't face her anymore.

on my wrist there is a door
that opens a centi no more

and i'm slowly walking to this door
that would take me to hell and more

and when i'm through with this door
none will see me anymore

tortures i'm facing is the key to this door (wrist)
everyday it would turn and turn till it can't no more

and when it unlocks this precious door
the ones coming through it more and more

will drip.
and drip.

i'm sorry...
but i still love you

— The End —