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Jan 2014 · 869
Dear Mommy and Daddy
Iqmal Jan 2014
dear mommy and daddy,
I'm sorry I left you like this, I know you've been busy,
with appointments and client meetings
I understand, it's for the family
but these past few months have been hell for me
I tried to talk to you both but you ignored me.

the money and cars we have won't help me
it won't lessen my daily misery
but I've bought plenty of bandages for my wrist
but you won't know anyway because you never see me
as you two would leave before me;
our maid and cat, my every-morning-company.

I would always wait for your return back home,
but you would always pass by me, just like you do
with the garden gnomes.
sometimes I would help our maid prepare tea
but just as I would serve you, you'd say
"Honey, we're kinda busy," without even looking at me.

and I know I couldn't talk or speak
just like your client's and boss's kids.
you see, these hand signals don't mean anything
because when I'm talking to you,
it's more like having a silent conversation
with the ceiling.
sad thing is, you don't even look and see
that I'm trying.

so this is a letter for you mommy and daddy
I'm turning 16 today but I doubt that you'll wish me,
now go and treat my brother, his name is Money
and tell everyone in school about this, especially the bullies.

and yes, now I am definitely resting  in  peace.
Dec 2013 · 1.3k
Iqmal Dec 2013
Who knew I’d go this far in poetry? Matter of fact, it was never

in my list, not option one, two nor three

But I’m surprised at where it took me, to meet

different people from different countries

With interests of writing words and connecting

Them like these.  

Painting pictures and creating sceneries from words

Angst and zeal all wrapped in a verse

No rules, nothing, it’s so very free

Doesn’t have to rhyme, said who that it’s a must?

So don’t make a big fuss

Out of it, you can always adjust the words if you’re scared

of the sea of people that’ll look at you with pure disgust

but if they do judge you, to a certain degree

that is nothing and nothing else but robust,

you go up to them, don’t cuss, don’t ******

but tell them, “This poem is written by me,

and if you have nothing else to say but combust

words that displays strong averse

to my poem, then keep your mouth shut” and just

Dec 2013 · 621
a very short story
Iqmal Dec 2013
a lonely teen throws his dinner out in fury
because he desires company more than to fill his tummy.

a brother is busy telling his two younger brothers a bedtime story,
to distract them from repining about the lack of food in their tummy.

the lonely teen blankets himself, weeping silently,
how everyone disregards him even his own family.

meanwhile, the brother found a piece of steak in the alley,
happy, he was glad that they could live for another three days, at least.

and while the lonely teen in his warm blanket crying,
the three siblings in their cardboard blankets, smiling.
Dec 2013 · 576
writer's block
Iqmal Dec 2013
akin to forgetting the social security password
the ideas are locked away from themselves
the couples making out in the corner
weren't aiding me in this
as two hearts were broken
just outside the window
leaving a feminine dress damp from tears
and masculine jeans leaving the scene.
the pen is getting colder
and the page naked with a word
at the head.

pages were flipped, lines were read
but none were the fitting key for this lock
and after an hour of staring,
flipping pages and reading lines,
i left the table,
giving up, perplexed
and the page read,

what is love?
Dec 2013 · 1.6k
a cold day
Iqmal Dec 2013
she exiled herself from the
atmosphere that ended her in tears
and she lay flat on the ground,
didn't care, didn't fear.
she made an angel by herself
she wished was here
to banish her griefs
and as a snowflake landed
on her bare, exposed neck,
she fumbled over the word
love just as the snowflake
melted, her blood cells jumped
as the sheer cold drip of water
licks the lovebite solemnly.
two delinquent angles neared her
reeking of alcohol and fresh sins
salvaging her with broken thoughts
and beer bottles;

and another snowflake landed
on her bare, exposed neck,
but this time, it didn't melt.
Nov 2013 · 403
pen and notebook
Iqmal Nov 2013
i often write on my notebook
with a pen of mine
and sometimes, the words
are so deep that they
bleed me, through the pages.

but no one knows about
my notebook
because i hide them
with long sleeves
and sweaters.

i do love my pen though.
i sharpen them
every once in a while
when they blunt
from writing too much.
Nov 2013 · 343
Iqmal Nov 2013

he lay still, weeping on his bed
never his option to want to have as his fate
never his option to have a face like that,
never his option to want to be laughed at.

little did they know how much he has suffered
how the bruises were from his father
how he looked up at him as a hero
how his mother used to hug him, now she's no more .

if only they would try and ask him about these things
then life would've been better for him
then he won't be lying in bed weeping
after taking a mouthful of aspirins.

so now he lay still on his bed
not weeping, not breathing, not sad but he was glad
that he made everyone else's life better
by ending his much more sooner.
Oct 2013 · 945
cries of the sky.
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.
Oct 2013 · 706
pensive thought
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.
Oct 2013 · 475
the painter.
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.
Oct 2013 · 1.4k
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 —