We whole, we two wholesome nincompoops,
Enclosed in our private infinity,
And the expressive word happy etched in the air,
Despite the numerous bruises you gave me moments ago,
As you made a foofaraw of my interaction with a homosaphien of the opposite gender,
And the fact that I called you unpleasant words,
The scattered black and blue on my milky complexion,
As plain as day, hurt like hell,
Sadistically, you label my appearance serene,
As if your abuse beautified my meat suit,
For when you anger, you’re atrocious, dear,
Wildly inhuman, like this beastly apparition that was six feet under for too long,
And emerges from the depths of your soul, hungry for forlorn wails,
Yet, I admit of my doltishness,
For when you come around and voice airy apologies,
(and I know undoubtedly that they would last for approximately 5 days),
I nod and hug you as the pain flows southwards and crawls to the base of my being,
Because we whole, we two wholesome nincompoops.

-Iman Maq.

To those who are puzzles,
That don’t desire to be solved,
That don’t intend to taste day,
That enjoy the company of shadows,
That stare into space and just,
Have no idea what to feel,

Some say it gets better,
There are days you want it to,
They are days that you can’t,
You won’t, you just want black,
And you want to smash yourself,
Real hard and press that restart button.

Iman Maq.

I don’t know anymore,
Each time I call your name,
The delicate wind whispers back,
“He has gone to a place away from you,
And held your heart in his arctic grasps as he walked away,

Allowing it to touch the ground and,
Seconds later palming it against the Earth”.

Iman Maq.

The amount of veins that map,
My palm frightens me- and the blues,
And purples in them seem surreal,
For my palms are also red and so,
Are my protruding cheeks- and then,
There’s the brown mop on my head,
And the browns in my eyeballs,
And white stones in my pink mouth,
My skin is splashed with olive, yellow,
And hints of gold when bathing in Sun,

I feel colours everywhere but why is,
The atmosphere around me always,
Black and white?

Iman Maq.

the mornings are lonely,
cold, why?
why’d you leave?
it was beautiful,
when you were around,
my heart, now,
is heavier than before,
your absence,
it pricks the heart,
sadistically- the ache i,
own, never stops.


Iman Maq.

Do you, sweet flower,
Miss my skin like I miss yours?
And does my smell fog your head?
Do my moles fall with the snow?
Does the bird in your lung long for,
My white piannisimo voice? My,
Heavy heart, don’t you want to hold it?
I plea, search for my brown eyes,
Because I intend to look at you,

For sweet, sweet delicate flower,
Do you miss my skin,
Like I miss yours?

Iman Maq

One of my many wacko drawings. Not something you encounter everyday.

One of my many wacko drawings. Not something you encounter everyday.