Mona Mohamed Jul 16

My side of the Earth is wrapped in
Wherever I walk the ground
Mornings feel like the first pages of
different books,
A foreign blink to a familiar eye.

Sometimes I feel no pressure
to unpack the stars,
Laying on my back in a room
with no wires,
Though sometimes I'd plug the moon,
and watch how it scares away
the ghosts,
Their silhouettes marching
on the walls,
Or maybe that's me running from
my thoughts.

The ground feels like it's squeezing
my toes,
Burying the soles of my feet
in the sand,
I hang the sea on the far horizon,
Just to have something to pull me

In my two-bedroom cardboard reality,
My mistakes are never quiet,
Going through the tracts
I've burrowed in my existence,
I can't find the hinges that hold my world together,
Or the patterns that could help me try.

Why does the water taste like
it's from a different planet?
Maybe it's just me,
Afraid to get too comfortable,
With a present seemingly
not mine,
A sketch I started drawing,
But felt like I lacked the talent
to finish.

Mona Mohamed Jul 14

I'm running out of distractions,
My head bobs out of this shallow denial,
With the condensation of the present,
Settling around cruel and final.

With an unsheltered sanctuary,
Broken telepathy to the furthest corners of my mind,
The mystery of the veiled present unfolds,
And only the sullenness is left behind.

I'm running out of distractions,
I can only indulge in this involuntary fall,
Under the lingering shadow of the moment,
The conference of thought stands tall.

What is there playing before my eyes?
Everything I'd hidden my face from day after day...
A world compromising to the speed of sound,
But somehow it remains frozen, behind glass displayed.

● ● ●

July 2016
Mona Mohamed Jul 6

I doodle on paper,
And color my eyebrows with coffee stains,
Then I turn my skin sour,
With the base layer my blood is drained,
I love my lips peach,
But I know it's better to keep things beige,
I want my hair engine red,
But copper is better at taming my rage,
I'm making a statement,
Or is the statement really making me?
Buried beneath all my favorite colors,
I keep a living dead part out of reach,
If the radio could play faces,
I'd be the next hit to come along,
Spraying my features for the summer,
As bold as the ones in vogue,
It's the glamour city,
With streets like a set of parallel mirrors,
In search for one's self,
Only one reflection went cancerous.

I'm not makeup shaming anyone. I use makeup myself, and I have nothing against it. What I don't like is how everyone's looking the same now, going with the same trend, using the same colors, copying each other. Because where's the fun in that? I thought it was all about creativity and coming up with your own "favorites."
Mona Mohamed Jun 13

Divide the moon into two halves,
You'll find inside a million lamps,
Also cut the heart into two halves,
You'll find inside blood and valves.

Romance is trapped in a Shakespearean novel,
He buried it under the centuries with his shovel,
And the modern fast pace modified the human brain,
It's only a repetitive pattern of falling in vain.

Juliet has a husband, he's older by twenty years,
He's never home, she's always out shopping new fears,
Romeo is jobless, searching ups and downs for a key,
He heard life starts in the aftermath of a dream.

The old witch sitting in front of a glass bowl,
Now broke and retired, all her cookbooks are sold,
And the wolves are out, ruling the woods,
Magic's density in the air, isn't as high as it should.

So plug the stars out, pluck all the electric flowers,
The universe is now running low on power.

● ● ●

November 2014
Mona Mohamed May 29

Your need is a knife,
Sometimes a chainsaw.

It cuts at my shoulders,
The bones in my arms,
Some days it's quite greedy,
Wanting a share of my soul,
Dissecting a chamber or two
of my heart.

You eagerly want to drink my sanity,
To dehydrate me of any positivity,
Till life seeps through me and into you,
And osmosis makes us even,
Two distorted figures with no aim,
That's when you can sleep.

I'm afraid we can't both reside
in my fraying body,
You weigh a million unsaid words,
And my spine isn't strong enough
To keep pushing us through
your derailing paths.

Mona Mohamed May 28

What are we doing stifling flames,
Taming the wilderness with acceptance,
Handling life with kitchen mittens,
Following a bone to where the currents send us.

We live in a river doomed to have one shore,
And all the boats sail to infinity,
Only when the drought hits town
Do all the sailors part for the sea.

Art became something we're used to,
A design where every brushstroke has to fit,
Bold colors feel like salt in your coffee,
Cause they make the reserved eyes upset.

So every candle smells of forgiveness,
An act of worship for a new excuse,
You might wake up tomorrow or after 90 years,
And see that this paper can no longer be of use.

An old write from my drafts.
Mona Mohamed May 26

They say, your blood is diluted,
Adulterated with a murky liquid,
What runs through your veins
And what runs through ours
can never be mixed
Soon enough it will turn into water,
and we wouldn't be sure
you ever existed.

What if a few vampires put it to use!
Perhaps it's toxic
Killing two birds with the same stone,
Oh how that'll straighten the land,
More chambers for our offsprings to own,
We won't blink an eye when we see them eliminating
a contaminated form
The blood bank feeds the top of the pyramid,
and you're just unwelcomed in the
enrichment zone.

You see, our pride has taught us
That bloods have different flavors,
When we run out of the fine wine,
That's when our front begins to waver,
But your life is on sale in a thrift store,
If we see none of you, you'll be doing a favor.

"Bloods" is not a word.
Because it's the same liquid that runs in all of us. One liquid.
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