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.
  3d  Mona Mohamed
David Hewitt
David Hewitt
3 days ago

Be silent
This world need not hold me, nor I, it
I ask for thy freedom from these rusted shackles
Liberation from a stifling snobbery.
Must I plead insanity to this madness which surrounds,
For it consumes my insides with wretched stench
And poisons all visions of beauty
This world need not hold me, nor I, it
More, let this universe grow wings upon my wishes
Unfold its secrets so far from human gaze
But allow thine eyes to breathe in such wonderment
To stretch imaginations beyond physical truth
To grow, as does love, among vivid hues
This world need not hold me, nor I, it
‘Tis written in Poetry, where my heart resides

Mona Mohamed
Mona Mohamed
3 days ago

Gradually I'm losing interest,
Negotiating and bargaining
has sucked the energy out of me,
Every one of my reasons
has been worn out,
And the wind's wrath
has taken everything in its path,
What is left is lost
under masses of dust,
Excuses why the world
is on autopilot,
And we should sit back
And watch it burn,
Because it will burn
Whether we want it to or not,
My mind asks questions,
And what I'm met with
are not answers,
are not reasons,
I'm only met with white noise,
The sound of walking feet,
The sound of closing doors,
The sound of an empty well,
The wheels rolling,
And people sleeping and waking,
As if we're meant to learn
how to walk on this thin rope,
And never do more than breathe,
How am I supposed to sit down,
and persuade myself
that tomorrow I will try again,
I tried yesterday,
And I tried today,
But I'll always be painted
and submission
in their eyes,
And I'll always be painted
"third world"
And "underdeveloped"
To the passerbys,
And sadly every color of those
is permanent.
I may not be the only one
with a breath left,
But the others who gave up
on their lungs years ago,
They're trying to mute
our sound of breathing,
To fill our lungs with soot,
To  mummify our sense of being,
To push us under the wings
of what is morally accepted,
The morals that are trending this year.
And I know it,
That eventually we will recede,
Just like history tells,
And just like I am about to
bow down and look at my feet,
And brush another crude comment
under the carpet.

Sorry for this excessive dose of pessimism. It's still 12:16 pm here. But you know when you try to sleep on something and you wake up feeling the exact same thing. So write it down is what I did.
Mona Mohamed
Mona Mohamed
6 days ago

A tap dance, on the borderline of the inevitable,
Hoping for a new kind of mutation to break the spell,
Speaking in a foreign tongue with controversial thoughts,
Maybe if I give in to the free fall, the pattern will fall as well.

The world is cursed with a slumber that drinks their souls,
And eats at their instincts of right and wrong,
Apparitions clutching customs they've made in the dead of night,
Oh but it's bright morning in their native tongues.

Clinking glasses with liquids more volatile than their brains,
I'm at the same table trying to dodge their dripping DNA,
Nodding my head when they say sanity is south of dreaming,
And agreeing to make an appointment with the future on Monday.

Somehow I'm in pause, tripping into a glitch in time,
Where am I? Staring at a tailored form of acceptance,
It's ice cold, stale colors, mildly pleasant curt nods,
I gasp for blackness, just anything with which I can make sense.

Maybe if I stare so hard at the ceiling I could see the sky,
And if I daydream too much I could hold the upper hand,
I close my eyes, I leave the railing, and I do give in,
But too early they're open again,
and things are no longer under my command.

"I find it kinda funny, and I find it kinda sad.
The dreams in which I'm dying, are the best I've ever had." - Tears For Fears

This feeling is bookmarked,
This page is queued,
Later on my mind goes through
Thoughts it has refused.

I've heard about this land
They keep trying to reach,
Sniffing round the borders,
Keeping their minds on a leash.

If my heart could be a red carpet,
If I'd wipe mirrors with my sleeves,
Then I'd let it all resurface,
And I'd emerge from behind the trees.

But as the sun goes down,
The cars resume on their highways,
I'll let it blur through the window,
The glass will make it look so faraway.

My feet know the tracks I've trained them,
In sync with the busy evening,
As long as the doors are still open,
Thoughts in their right orbits are spinning.

But as the clock ticks and tocks,
Bookmarks fall from their pages,
Passerbys suddenly become visitors,
Settling around with their familiar faces.

And on and on this cycle of days,
Brings us together and pushes us away.

And we swing till our backs hurt,
Each of us still putting themselves first.

Why are all the colors becoming one shade,
The lighter and darker tones merging into one,
Same stare worn by different faces,
It's as if they have found yet another sun.

In the heat of the fight, the same thoughts are chanted,
And when they run out of paper the silence is amplified,
The voice of reason becomes a recording,
And the sense of right and wrong has officially died.

And when they turn their heads in that direction,
Why does that make the luster so dull?
Last night on the newsfeed, the minds eager
to grip their north as they scroll and scroll.

So the hearts turn to embellished stones,
A chameleon for when the medium is just right,
At the point of a finger, they turn to mush,
But at the absence of it, the eyes say an ignorant goodnight.

I'm aching to scream it, the human in me is still alive!
But sometimes I see me too, walking backwards down the hill,
Everything has become so tasteless,
The days predicted, the opinions formulated like a pill.


The waves are mad,
They run like phantoms
Throwing the rocks off guard,
While they cling onto the shore.

As if they're avoiding the morning sky,
The sun smoking a burning cigarette,
Still fresh like a poem yet to be
written into the world.

I'm trying to prolong this solitude,
My mind like a used canvas,
Rummaging through the right thoughts,
To cross this stale river,
But they feel like repeated brush strokes.

Never like those birds,
Free with no calling direction,
Every word feels measured;
Not as bold as the ones
the water spoke.

Why does this wet paper
- a landing area for
the stray water drops -
Feel like an open coffin
to every newborn idea.

A sardonic joke played by inspiration,
To lead those unused words
to lay frozen in an infinite winter,
My need to create
an unanswered plea.

Maybe one last look
at the vastness ahead,
That could lead to another story,
Just waiting on the other side..

What would it take
to guide those scattered waves,
and patch this gap in telepathy;
To get this writer's block to resign.

● ● ●

Eyes like it simple,


Just when it reaches that imaginary threshold of good,
It's overcooked.


We don't want interruption to our sleeping thoughts,
We just want a good night.


Eyes like flaws, eyes are the mothers of our young hearts,
They search for flaws, 
For reasons why they raised their kids better,
So they can smile to their neighbor and say the most superficial compliment.


So eyes just want to read a few words,
To convince the hearts they're leading that that's just what life offers.


Because when they train them, that they shouldn't trespass around a wider scale,
They will hate every masterpiece with a passion,
Sidestep it,
And pat mediocrity on the back.


Eyes like it simple,
... Oh but they don't,
They are the best of liars,
When it comes to shrugging.

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