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Mona Mohamed Feb 21
In the depth of winter,
the splash of cars,
Mud collecting
in the leg of my favorite jeans,
I wrap my jacket
around me tighter,
And the let it hug
my frozen torso and fraying dreams.

Starry night playing
on each of my eyelids,
A whimsical fantasy
unlike the fog in my skies,
Oh how predictable
the end of the road,
Yet scary the ruffle
of the morning after each night.

And I can't help
but radiate this coldness,
That stirs the passerbys away
as they shoulder past,
Ice continues to collect
under my fingernails
Who'd wanna shake hands
with those glacial hands?

I plead with the rainman
residing in my head,
And write to the clouds
leaking inside my eyes,
We can't keep warning
people of our weather,
Whenever they set foot
near our arctic pride.

With a sigh, I curl
one hand over the other,
Letting them
lone companies hang,
For most people winter
lasts four months,
But for me, I never knew
where it ended and I began.
Mona Mohamed Nov 2020
How do you feel things lightly?
How do you let them pass
To separate all the layers
To let a full breath last?

Cause there are no peripheries,
No borderline were we separate,
I'm smothered by this weather
And I'm so entangled in its fate.

I tried to tread lightly,
To pull up a glass screen,
But when I close my eyes
My mind can't unsee what it has seen.

The more I try to run to the shallows,
The more selfish that I feel,
A traitor fleeing from the huddle
Where all the wounded kneel.

Hands moving in accordance,
Words uttered with no meaning,
A mismatched figure trying
To make her condolences more appealing.

In this bed of water I lay wondering
where the leaks are coming from,
But does it matter, now that the currents
have made it past my wavering front?

So how do you feel things lightly,
How do you let them pass?
To allow for you to address
Your own crumbling castle of sand.

●●●
Mona Mohamed Apr 2020
With uncareful watch of the hours,
The night spreads like threads unlinked,
Drawing a comparison about what’s more frightening,
The stillness or the sudden shift.

Laying in a still motion picture,
A million frames of the same fear,
A tailored Bermuda triangle where
Life stops but the arms of every clock disappear.

And you’re left stranded,
With the anticipation of every wrong scenario,
So for today you’ll munch on anxiety for dinner,
‘Cause the face of every tomorrow scares you.

Oh how little you can do in those early AMs,
When both of your hands are cuffed to your insecurities,
And the night is there like a watch guard,
Standing between your panic prison and clarity.

And when desperation comes to join you,
It tells you tales of a monster that preys on time
“Never sleep.” It warns. “It’ll take you to those intimidating mornings,
It will leave you without a dime.”

When all of those night friendly emotions gather,
And drench your gut in their cold foreboding,
You, too, become a silent watcher, dissociated from your body,
Awake, asleep, floating.

Your mind says goodnight with finality,
Not willing to futher succumb to the night,
In the morning you’ll find you some superglue,
To hold together your broken promise to always take your side.
Mona Mohamed Oct 2019
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 2019
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 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.
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