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Hello, The Inspiration Agency?

= Yes, Ma'am. That's correct.

- I have a complaint, sir.

= Do tell. Anything we need to inspect?

- Oh yes sir, the material you're sending is too complex!

= Would you like a refund?

- Oh no! You said I should write with no regrets!

= Then I don't understand...

- I would prefer a lighter tune, something happy or simple.

= Oh but we're running out of those, would you like some romance?

- No please, none of that, I'd rather write about Rick turning himself into a pickle...

= But those would get you the biggest fans!

- Couldn't care less...

= Well I'm afraid there's nothing here we can do...

- You could fulfill my requests!

= Careful, ma'am! We could only send your orders once in a blue moon!

- No ... no, sir! Please hang on!

= You're overusing our customer service hot line.

- But everything is going wrong!

= I'm sure your writing is just fine...

- But it's not! It's too depressing, even I don't get it!

= Miss, I'm about to hang up.

- Then I don't want your service anymore! Not. One. Bit.

= You sure about that? Okay, our services will officially stop.

- Sir, no! That was out of line...

- Sir?

- Sir! NO!

Mona Mohamed Sep 2
The week goes by,
Your attitude
the ***** laundry
I get to go home with,
I open the washing mashing
The drain
inside my mind
And for a second I wonder,
And the thought coils
and spirals,
Rotates with the wheels
of my mind’s washing machine
Would the stains you left –
From your lipophilic words
Adhering to the seems of my skin
… ever be washed out?
Or will this thin cloth –
Thinned by my tendency to forgive –
Not see better days?
That it’s only a matter of time,
Before it’s time to recycle it,
Hop onto this cycle
And give you back
the attitude
You ever so generously spilled,
I don’t recall a bigger dilemma
That kept me awake
even on mondays
When all the laundry was fresh,
Than this one.
Do I become you
to you,
Or do I show you how
to be me
to me.
Mona Mohamed Nov 2018
I find myself overshadowed by the universe,
Just a tiny breathing creature on a tiny earth,
The turbulence of my cries dies in my throat,
And when it greets the world, the world is lost in thought.

I ask a bird to carry me, and I stand in the sky,
I shout listen to me, I have a speech filled with I's,
I refuse to be lonely, that my voice gets forgotten,
Power lies in me, even though I'm at the very bottom.

And I look around, but nobody has raised their heads,
The earth is still orbiting in its same old orbit,
The sun smirks at me, as it announces a new day,
That's when I realized, that initially I had nothing to say.

The bird abandons me, and I sullenly walk home,
Maybe the world doesn't need me, I'm better off alone,
I hang my head, my sweat collects into a pool,
I jump into it, time to drown off just another fool.

When my shame has departed, I shake off the water,
I realize that my hand aches to rant to a blank paper,
So I write and I write till night becomes dawn,
And even then my mind had the capacity to ramble on.

Inspiration only finds me at times when I'm by myself,
And we witness this little miracle where art is given birth,
A tinier world forms within a tiny world,
Where all I want is written, painted, drawn, said, and heard.

The more I walk in this life, the more I get to see
My little solar system assemble tiny piece by tiny piece,
And I get to visit all those places people frequent in their dreams,
But this time I'm the master writing every scene.

And maybe one day someone would stumble into this dimension,
They'd get to live my stories in a world of my invention,
You don't have to scream at the world to show you have power,
Just do what you love, and in the aftermath you'll live forever.

● ● ●
"Power has been cried by those stronger than me."    ~ Hozier
Mona Mohamed Aug 2018
We speak in future tense,
Dreaming of the land of cream,
Where pollution is white,
And we're employed to dream.

If tomorrow had shoulders,
The tendons would be adorned in tears,
From the weight of the expected,
The pushed back promises that are insincere.

We're asking tomorrow
To be the battle wound we've never had,
The battlefield overcome by green,
So we shut our eyes, and turn our backs.
Mona Mohamed Mar 2018
Sitting around the circular table,
Heads strung down with the realization,
That you have to come to terms again
With how temporary everything is
How the beginnings are only a means to an end.

The lamps are all shining bright together,
A rare occurrence for the living room,
Only adding to the seriousness of the situation,
The need to focus on what to do.

Wishing your hand was wide enough
To carry all the right decisions,
So that nothing could be out of hand,
Nothing could cross the peripheries
Of your man made plans.

You look up through the ceiling
And your heart does all the talking for you,
With every jab and every ache
It writes a paragraph with pure anger,
But then you plead with everything at stake

And with the first stripes of dawn,
You're pulled to your dark cold bed,
With pillows like rocks floating on water,
And covers that suffocate your body,
To close your eyes, you're just not ready
Not ready to let it go yet.
Mona Mohamed Mar 2018
An addict in remission,
A side effect of realism
Is losing the ability to listen,
So all the sounds and the voices
Run around in your mind,
With no one to catch them,
No one to give them rhythm,
So they falter and wilt,
And later you wallow around in guilt,
'Cause of the guest you've become
in your own body imprisoned,
Watching your life like a television,
Your sense of expression
Lost in the repetition,
And what was once a habit,
A way to say goodnight to your mind,
Is now a foot unable to walk
After forgetting the mechanism,
And omitting the familiarity,
A progress in regression,
So you stand,
hands and eyes full to the brim
Unable to empty even a little bit
Of the chaos you've been given,
In those letters and words,
You feel no recognition,
Your gut carrying all the crumbled pages,
The barrel of your unwrittens,
But it's like your hands've been cursed,
To sort this mess they've been forbidden,
So you're only invited to a blank page
To listen to your own criticism.
Mona Mohamed Oct 2017
Dear future self,

On a scale of one to doormat,
How prune are you to accept?

And have you been proven wrong,
Or is it still the worst you expect?

Have you learnt walking the line
Between pessimism and optimism,
Or have you lost your wits?

Have you made yourself lasagna,
Kept track of your ***** laundry?

Eating enough green,
Or still lazy to get up when you're hungry..

Is time as life altering as it sounds,
Or plain old yesterdays that represent nothing?

Have you bribed your lucky stars,
And found that perfect timing all of a sudden?

Are you even still writing,
Or left the platform for greater poets?

Still doing things half-heartedly,
Or finally filled the gap where the lines are dotted.

Have you witnessed a miracle?
Washed yourself of your ever present dissatisfaction?

Acquainted the many selves that you are,
And finally released your thoughts from their abstraction?

I know there's no finish line,
Or at least we won't be here to behold it.

But I hope you're far ahead,
So you can slow down a bit.
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