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 dirty 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 fount 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.

Mona Mohamed Sep 2017

Shall I dwell in a blob of paint

Something so fickle...

With flailing arms I'll try to swim

in something so little...

Colored and indigenous 

My thoughts will trickle...

And in this petty vividness 

My eyes shall twinkle...

Till I create a river so infinite

So I never again feel belittled... 


●●●

April 2016
Mona Mohamed Jul 2017

Once, they used to associate
the color of terror
With a shade darker than midnight,
Folded deep between the blacks,
They say darkness is never frank.

The ghouls hang after dinner,
After the 7 pm soap opera,
The ones that fear the smell of light,
Scandalized by afternoons,
Only protected by a bribed moon.

I fear there's been a mutation,
A transformance of some sort,
Holding the clear sky a witness
To misfortunes marring the bright of day,
The watching sun didn't scare them away.

So as we're scattered,
Playing along,
As specs in a dynamic universe,
Stirred by life's invisible hands,
Believing in our clockwork plans,
The oil falls and the painting is saturated,
Disrupted, disfigured, ravaged,
Beyond the setting of all the bad bad tales,
Trouble trickles wherever it falls into place,
Never caring to merge into the painting with grace.

Mona Mohamed Jul 2017

My side of the Earth is wrapped in
cellophane,
Wherever I walk the ground
Scrunches,
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
ahead.

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 2017

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 Jun 2017

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 2017

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.

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