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  • islamabad 6w

    some old pieces, assembled all together
    This is how do I clean my room too. ;)


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    The rainy clouds and blurry truths;
    no more hide the lies of your presence.
    Tomorrow,it could be a memory too,
    Today it's just a yesterday's asset.

    My Love is least of opportunities
    but an ample of scars
    Yet I've a grain of hope
    in my pocket,that here
    my soul will find its lost spirits.
    a good omen, a caress hand
    will keep it warm and charmy.
    but it ends in a little long hour.

    Tears cast no stain of
    emotions, guilts and sighs.
    They're always colour less.
    So they can't melt some hearts
    yet burn some dreams alone.

    Grief flew away of my bones and veins,
    nested itself somewhere around,
    but I got up one morning and noticed that;
    It perched again on my shoulders and sighs.

  • islamabad 7w


    clearing my drafts, Pick em up

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    The rainy clouds and blurry truths;
    no more hide the lies of your presence.
    Tomorrow,it could be a memory too,
    Today it's just a yesterday's asset.

  • islamabad 7w

    There are the days;
    when you look around all corners of the room,
    and don't find yourself,
    You tell a truth although a lightest lie
    could brace the story.
    Your soul stay still in a crowd
    and the jangle of town don't rhym with your rhythm.
    The high town buildings and the roaming city fame,
    seem swiped away of your sight.
    You know when and how it rained
    that washed away the mute sillence of your life.
    But there,you don't know when you loved some souls as love actually mattered.
    The places and hearts you chose to live, feels no more safe rather you chose the abandoned roads and skin torn hands.
    You see your colors getting faint so get to know that some souls are made to fade alive.
    The flavours your baren lips squelch for, are not the souvenir of peel of money or cold words.
    Sometimes you are afraid of wild damages you could do and see them coming forth, beyond forth ,in a present.
    You know everything yet everything is unknown.
    You do it, We do it all.
    In real, for real.
    Unknowingly daily


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  • islamabad 7w

    strange is a term promise,
    like a rain on a sunlit day.
    Someone named it emotionally
    cause one couldn't find a term
    that hurt,calm , slay,
    feel,annoy all at the same time.
    Maybe promise is just
    a candy pop that vanishes on touch of ecstatic tongue
    amnesiac soul that folds under the skin of sighs
    or a wilted leave that desires for a long life.
    Promises too have faces,
    unveiled and moulded
    by the hands that believe in fallacy of tomorrow.
    Bring me a charm, cause everytime promises just strike my ears rather than soul.
    Why always we utter promises that are dead and deprived of the breathes,
    one fumes helplessly while giving them a birth.
    I think promises too weep faded nights a little longer, not only the eyes who listened them.
    I think promise is another creature,
    that is sad on its birth.
    I think promises too don't want life only to die like all of us.



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    If promise lasts longer ($ighs)


  • islamabad 16w

    Tossing Nature

    I don't want to lie about the curdy sky with gaps between pastel patches,

    and the bleeding sunset marks
    that trusses the borders of their
    hearts and pour beats in it.

    The roses that soak the loathes
    from the abyss of cold words
    and gush the poems in beaded
    drops of kindness.

    how can I lie about the rainbows
    that celebrate the rainy clouds
    and perfumed shades.
    they sew the hearts
    that are stabbed with hatred
    and dipped in doubts.

    I might be a pitch black liar,
    but how can I lie about
    all the baubles that have been
    decorating the universe
    for thousand of years.
    Surely,They will live more
    of the breathes and promises
    with no lungs and hands.
    Albeit,all will die one after one.


  • islamabad 18w


    The September

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    The past night I know
    how breathes stacked up
    and sew the sky
    with our indileable
    pocket memories,
    hem knots your name
    and caress the blank love.
    the skyline is nothing,
    unless it glitters at inifinty
    cluthing the hands of shy stars,
    mould into your constellation.
    Your smells foil on a rose bract,
    spout flavours of buttered syrup
    and aromatic stains,
    craved on heart and wrinkle of time.
    the tree with its bower is on
    and smiles' brace .
    The September is lingering over the window of October,
    when will you return home,honey?

  • islamabad 18w

    I gnaw all the breathes and moans
    from the chewy candy of time
    whenever the hour hand sprints past 12am,
    a spare day gulps some seconds
    and gets famous for "today"
    Many a hours made "yesterday"
    crisscrossed conjucture of resolution and sluggish me,
    lies fainted and drabbed under the heaps of million of seconds,
    like a dead and shoddy dandelion,
    laden with heavy sighs
    lays at the brink of alone street.
    Waiting to be picked up
    sometimes by deep love,
    sometimes by heart beats.

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  • islamabad 28w

    The day I found you weeping,
    there was a lava sliding past my veins.
    Inch of my breathes fumed out,helpless.
    The burnt smell constricted my lungs to puff a single sigh.
    Distance hurts but your absence more.

    Heartseases have grown in green pot
    the love too,has grown high.
    Their shades resemble your cheeks
    and air engross it to smile everyday.
    Better I gulp air with them,
    They miss you too.

    I've some chocolate wrappers and
    the wilted roses, sleeping in history book
    some polaroids,I captured secretively.
    Your smiles and some hand pictures.
    You know I love them alot.

    I'm trapped in a bubble,where world seems scary.
    I miss how days were carefree with you.
    I never had to watch tiking clocks
    and alarms were never a thing for me.
    Even cotton candies don't taste the same.

    There's no star in sky tonight.
    Again they are sad.
    Perhaps they are tired of shining.
    I appreciate how they try to stretch smile on my face each day
    but end up with some salty tears and heavy suspires.
    Only I want you, them and us together.

    Funerals are for livings only.

  • islamabad 29w


    On map of world,
    The blood and flesh packed in neon membranes
    And the blood and flesh packed in mud membranes
    and love the same.
    This air tickles all the lungs,
    But the eyes dont hide what hearts shun,
    Footsteps run after the destiny of fame.
    This way many of us lose what some gain.
    The time is uncertain also souls dont breathe,
    Man counts on the days also passes it beneath.
    The logic that leaves stain on us,
    Either is the scar of fate or the timely humdrum.

  • islamabad 35w

    when summer hails on my soul
    it melts into snowy regrets,
    Those wintery people gave me.
    how we all spell love same,
    Unlike its actual spell.
    Young spirits of pink skies.
    breathe the gentle storms,
    Yet youngs breathe fake lives.
    Summer is as kind as yellow,
    All mornings and evenings shade,
    make me write a letter to the people,
    I lost.
    There I realise to put down
    A letter from me to me.
    From the past to the present.
    A saint summer always freshens my reminiscence,
    That fiend winter knitted from the
    dejected but old happy yarn of life.
    The fresh smell of baby mangoes
    And flaxen marigolds in my courtyard
    bewitches my heart to fall in love again.



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