1996 -    
Maybe it's not about courage.
Maybe it's more than a closed-eye moment of bluntness.
Maybe you like the interior design of your mind,
And you want to stay there with no intruders.
Maybe it's not about courage.
Maybe it's more than a closed-eye moment of bluntness.
Maybe you like the interior design of your mind,
And you want to stay there with no intruders.
Mona Mohamed
Mona Mohamed
2 days ago

In the late hours of early morning,
Precipitations of the day before,
Lay there like caked makeup,
On a face waiting to be deplored.

The sun makes for a good shadow,
Blackening irises, making optimism crawl,
Then when the night arrives,
You see black spots on every wall.

Your soul develops a stutter,
Hiding away in the side of the moon,
Loneliness is not a disease,
It's a cure for a remorseful afternoon.

Down with every gulp of too sweet tea,
Every resentful thought is fighting to win,
Every second hand image
You see in the eyes of a foreign set of limbs.

You're yearning to wipe the world away,
Just to mask your green footsteps,
And when nobody's looking,
You'll bury all those versions of yourself that you've kept.

Mona Mohamed
Mona Mohamed
5 days ago

Through the sutures of my cerebral bones,
A non-human language of thought transcends,
Below the surface, in the depth of rationality,
All I feel is that rattle of waves, out there making amends.

Coral reefs grow along my arms, I'm just as alive as you are,
Even a bit more, as worlds collide and mornings glisten on my skin,
Every night the ocean sits on my shoulders like a veil,
I dream of ways to chant my gratitude on a mandolin.

A meaningless breath that blurs my porcelain eyes,
I see exhaled by the time travelers that pollute the land,
A network of interconnected labyrinths extends,
I watch from afar, never to contribute one grain of sand.

Sheltered from the extremities that lay beyond every rainbow,
I think in lively blues and shades of green,
Serenaded everyday by my ever-present peace of mind,
The taint of them land-walkers on my heart is forever unseen.

9/6/2016
“Ocean Atlas,” is the lastest underwater sculpture by artist Jason deCaires Taylor. Towering 18 feet tall and weighing in at more than 60 tons, Ocean Atlas is reportedly the largest sculpture ever deployed underwater. The artwork depicts a local Bahamian girl carrying the weight of the ocean above her in reference to the Ancient Greek myth of Atlas, the primordial Titan who held up the celestial spheres.

Tonight, as I flip through the world in the fog of the sky,
My brother's coughing beside me, rolling onto his right side,
We're pulling the bald landscape over our bodies of dust, 
We won't be dreaming of fairytales, just of a home to trust.

We drank too many tides, the sea is spilling over our bodies,
One day when our hearts explode, our names'll rhyme with casualties,
Along the tribes we race, at a young age hard we learnt,
That the longer we wait, the more of our memories will be burnt.

It's in black and white, the digital world they're fussing about,
We're in one cell of this universe that seeps no sound,
The clatter from the battleground rivals our ringing ears,
My dead mama said, boys were born to laugh at fear.

Through mirrors of smoke, I think I see distant planets shine,
I write to God everyday, can you patch the holes of mine?
At a tie in this war of peace, they bow down to the lion in the cage,
It'll only ever be a means to end, even our corpses will be estranged.

They only ever see eye to eye and claws to fangs,
Under clouds of fire, me and my brother will dance.

6/4/2016

They say for a girl, sentiment wins over intelligence,
They say God gave her a heart, that'll be her guidance.

A man with yellow teeth, growling words out of a cigarette,
His lighter burns with each of his stares, he chuckles, "Oh why's the lady upset?"

He shows his son the world where only those devoid of emotion make it home,
His daughters are allergic to sunlight, he's building his son out of stone.

The fight has one face, the companions of the moon scarred by the night,
A man hides his dirt under a black suit but the lady shall wear white.

Because when she'll look in the mirror she'll see her mother,
And her mother will see her grandmother, hands wrinkled from serving her brother.

He said, "As your father I love you, but as a man, I'm meant to push the wheel,
Ask him to patch the holes of his socks, and what he'd like for the next meal."


Because sentiment wins over intelligence, isn't that how it works?
Make an extravaganza about respect, but only her heart it concerns.

And as one last word of wisdom, her mother taught her of vulnerability,
And warned her about how minds work, how they become a liability.

A table with shiny mahogany wood, that's where she sits,
She's having this conversation with time as it passes in seconds and splits.

And her name became an insult, one that dignity frowns upon,
Her future a ghoul, it's mere thought something she's running from.

It was amazing how they decided to diverge races of humanity,
Creatures shall live as predators and preys for eternities.

Sometimes you're sitting
Where you'd usually be,
The same four walls,
The same folded dreams,
And the telephone rings,
The cars splash in the street,
You move to watch the rain,
How it converses with the trees,
And you're the silent creeper,
Wanting to stand unseen,
And you go back inside,
To the sound of shuffling feet,
Your sister slamming the door,
Your mom holding her tea,
Your eyes fall on every object,
Your watercolors, a book you reread,
What's wrong with the time,
Why does it feel bittersweet?
Their voices get muffled,
A silence grows near,
Sometimes it feels like I'm watching
From behind a screen,
Somehow I feel nostalgic,

For my dad reading his newspaper,
The smell emerging from the kitchen,
How it fills the whole house,
My dog barking in the background,
As if they might disappear,
Maybe it's this rainy day,
The seasons shifting gears,
Sometimes you want to savor a moment,
Something you want to keep,
Before you resume taking things for granted,
And the evening settles around eventually.

Just a rainy day :')

I am the greatest poet alive.

In my body, I am the greatest poet alive,
In my continent, I am the greatest poet alive-
Yesterday, I was…

Today, I am the worst poet alive,
Because I know that yesterday
I was at the peak of my poetic diffusion,
Inspiration stayed the night,
and greatness happened to have occurred,
So yesterday, I was the greatest poet alive,
in my population-of-one continent.

Today I'm just a jealous bitter soul,
Cause I know I wasn't good enough
for inspiration to stay,
Today I know that inspiration fears commitment,
I resembled everything appalling,
I was desperate and needy,
So inspiration left me for another poet
without a second glance.

Because inspiration doesn't want to be
chained down to the grounds of monotony,
A room with four walls is all I could offer,
And it needs a castle where it can trespass
to the wilderness of the sky any time,
It needs the freedom where it can soar
above and look down
in fascination at the array of poets
that it has touched their minds and hearts,
Because that's when inspiration feels alive,
When it can see the power that it has diffused
into their -now- luminescent hearts,
A picture depicting a sky adorned with stars,
An earth adorned by poets that never sleep.

Today, I'm heartbroken because I know inspiration will never be 'mine'.

It will continue to break hearts, then come back,
And I know that I will continue to accept its apologizes,
Even if they weren't uttered,
I will make one up inspired on spur of the moment,
Because without it I'm nothing but the worst poet alive,
In my body, in my population-of-one continent.

And when the days click and the words rhyme,
The world isn't always forgiving of the greatest poet alive in my population-of-one continent,
Because my poems are me,
And I know that I'm flawed,
I have bad hair days, my nose isn't pretty,
sometimes there are bags under my eyes, and I'm not always the nicest person,
Sometimes my appearance is disheveled,
Just like my poetry,
Then some days I spend the extra ten minutes in front of the mirror,
I care for the details,
And some days people actually like my words,
those are the good days.

And today, I am the worst poet alive,
Because I don't have hope,
Inspiration didn't leave me a note before it left,
It didn't give call me and said I'll be back in a few days,
So today I'm the worst poet alive in my book.

I've cleaned my mind though,
And threw away all the disposal pins
where I burst the bubbles of words that sound ridiculous,
I also folded away all the negative feedback
that my cerebral cinques have given me,
Hopefully inspiration might want to visit the greatest poet alive … tomorrow?

You can call it a rant. But it was actually an attempt at a Slam poem. I wrote it at a time when I wasn't inspired at all, I hadn't even written in months. So it meant something at the time.

Today is such a weird day,
Following the instructions social media proposes,
Religion picked up from between the lines
That your virtual timeline exposes,
Talking about how the world is such a small place,
But there's no one there when you turn your head,
In firmly sealed capsules we wander,
To every stranger there's always something unsaid,
Words of despair passed around like a bottle of salt,
Like unopened letters that we refold and send,
Trying to hop onto the train to the VIP land of followers,
Do the people you meet every day really care where you went?
And god forbid you make yourself susceptible
To liking the tunes favored by the masses,
You should be as unpredictable as the Best Picture at the Oscars,
Even though your own opinion is right under your glasses,
With crooked lines you draw this image,
And throw around titles that never fit,
As long as no one sees you as you go right round and contradict yourself,
Then there's no truth to admit,
Watching discreetly from behind screens,
Scrolling your way into people's lives,
Yesterday turns into tomorrow,
And you're still held capture in Queen B's hive,
And you repost and share and retweet,
Sensitive media that people always skip,
For a moment a light flickered,
And your mind had a more powerful grip,
But who reads yesterday's news, right?
The more the colors the better the picture,
So you dim the light on those unwanted thoughts,
As always, you say it's not my fault it's human nature,
And you find yourself resorting to one solution,
Your legs taking you to the first airplane,
Recalling the stories your grandparents told you,
How they stayed and it was in vain,
And that's when it's cue for the hashtags to shower the world,
Someone claiming how they'd never leave,
"It's home, man! It's better than all of this world handed on a silver plate!"
But just give him one opportunity, all those words will crawl under his sleeve,
It's a race, who'll get the scoop first,
We tailor-made a world out of clay,
And it turned into a the worst form of mutation,
It left our minds and hearts to decay,
I don't know how some can buy it,
Undercooked drama served into your hands,
Your thumb fighting a silent battle,
But at the end of the day it's overused quotes we chant.

 
To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment