Mona - Hello Poetry

Mona Jun 2016

Lukewarm

Modern age is the time of mediocrity,
It's the age of mildly felt passions,
A time to have lukewarm identities
The time to open the tab with caution.

Spill your dreams one by one,
Computers have limited your capabilities,
All the songs you wrote have already been sung,
Listen to the tracks of your mind so you don't feel guilty.

Draw triangles with your pencil,
Your sketches will never build you a house,
Listening to your heart isn't essential,
Listen to a stethoscope, it'll tell you money's whereabouts.

So you mix some water colors and feign a red,
And maybe rub two bricks to light a spark,
Photo-edit the features to keep the eyes fed,
And run away to sleep early before you ricochet in the dark.

Everyday you are taught about treachery,
Leaving the places that have stolen your heart,
You should sit uptight with your lawfully wedded misery,
And drive off to a pale yellow sunset where the future starts.

So with only your shadow, your being is whole,
But at nine am you're only an uneven half,
You forget your lines every time the curtains fall,
Till the day that you resign, you're waiting for that draft.

Your walls are a sick shade of beige,
You always open the tab with caution,
Mediocrity is the modern age,
A time of mildly felt passions.

Mona May 2016

Forbidden Grounds

Why are you, mighty Queen, staying all alone on the 8th floor?
Amongst the cloudy roofs, merely a shadow behind bolted doors?

A mountain of courage on the back of a fearless horse,
You conquered the world without a drop of remorse.

In your midlife years, love instead, conquered you,
Like a butterfly in a cavity, you became just a nice view.

A world you once looked up to, inspired by all its possibilities,
Morphed into the deepest of graves, the color of infidelity.

Do the sounds from the ***** downstairs transcend to your room?
A life and death contrast, the lights and the gloom, your King and you.

Under grand chandeliers, I saw a pretty mannequin hanging off his arm,
Dancing their tour through the castle, luring her with his charm.

He tell-tales the story of how you have gone mad,
How he failed trying to save the good girl from going bad.

Oh Queen, what are you doing? Reminiscing in your royal swing?
Painting pictures of the future you thought you'd have with the King?

Who is that man? The King?
- They said they heard a chuckle -
A man you met in a farm town, the one you showed the life of castles.

You remember sweeping his hair back and placing a crown on his head,
Him claiming that he loved you till the day he became one of the dead.

Till his howls of laughter and the clink of his cup became all you heard from him,
This vast enchanting castle suddenly started to become a place so dim.

Months were torn from calenders, cities and empires claimed to be his,
The world found a new conqueror, while you're getting lost in the abyss.

Queen, take off your shrouds, let us hear the clicks of your heels,
The King chokes on his apple as he looks up and your face he sees.

Rumor has it, you're changing your army, they're all now females,
You're choosing to place your trust in a place with no fear of derail.

Silence struck the line of pretty conquests awaiting the charming King,
When they saw you descending down the staircase, in your hand his silver ring.

You wore your cloak of quietness all those months, betraying no signs,
It's true what they say, sometimes the quite ones have the loudest minds.

The servants sweep the ashes of what used to be a treacherous King,
In his mighty crown, you pour oblivion and you drink.

Once again you grip the reins and fill the enormous throne,
You thought you'd balance loving and ruling, but you must choose one.

Being a slave to your fragile heart was never a desire of yours,
You're a Queen and those are doomed to live with their hearts closed.

Mona May 2016

Optical Illusion

We often only relate to negativity,
The blackest of lines
matching our irises where light is an illusion.

Spilling the foreign parts of our souls,
Mixing them with the colors of every stranger's intrusion.

We're way too familiar with every wrinkle that our words posses,
We have a photographic memory for our flaws.

We only see the crumbled itinerary,
Where the moments of doubt come alive to sink their claws.

We can't wear amusement well,
Not when our minds have no reflexive reaction to ourselves.

So that one sentence, that one gesture,
That voices the darkest of thoughts in our tiniest of cells,

Is the one we relate to the most,
In a sea of living sunrises and sunsets,
We can't help but look back,
And stare at that resurfacing ghost.

Mona May 2016

Photo Negative

To the waste land, we tread,
Following the presumptions of unanswered questions.

Rattling the pillars of a gazebo,
Where denial peacefully lies.

Through the glass,
We can no longer communicate, lacking all forms of expression.

Auditions for a silent play,
A fog settles over the redeemed skies.

Gasoline drenches the path,
Where we follow that one cancerous emotion.

And soon the infection is declared,
Images stripped back to their negative film.

The growls of hungry wolves,
Were only the surfacing clones of confusion.

But in the colors of dawn,
Everything was heightened, after a night so grim.

● ● ●

Mona May 2016

A Saviour

You don't know how much I want to be honest right now,
To show you my hands covered in ink and charcoal,
Take you to the untamable waves where I bargain with life,
And sweetly tell you the tales of my intangible ghouls.

I can imagine you'd be appalled, your features cringing,
But maybe I don't dream of fearless knights,
Maybe I only want you to be the youngest of flames,
To reflect all my unfinished and unedited lines.

You don't know much I want to be honest right now,
To give you the sails of my titanic drawn on a paper,
I'd wear my dullest of my pearls with their rusty chains,
I just need to borrow your third eye, I don't need a saviour.*

● ● ●

Mona May 2016

The Secret Tunnel

The end of the week is tied to the beginning,
And I'm walking in the middle of the loop,
Trying to catch my tail, but I keep on failing,
So I pause my thoughts for a second, my mind needs to regroup.

I listen to the only man walking in the streets past bedtime,
Disturbing the hush of the quietly collected hours,
I don't need a tomorrow to be my ruler, metaphorically or literally,
Snatching them from their stems, I randomly pluck wallflowers.

The paper is anything but crumbled, its corners neat,
But when your pen hinders mine, it's another story,
I fall to the sky-less ground and accept your offer of momentum,
I always have an available casket for my pride to bury.

But when I only stare ahead, I pick that pen again,
I don't compromise, I only climb on my ivy conditions,
Every letter is in pain, as I avenge my sense of being,
Not even in the mirror do I feel this sense of recognition.

By means of my own minutes, I learn and relearn,
How to never color past the lines, and stop when it's needed,
Separate the second chances from the black clouds,
And when the tide swallows me, I will stay firmly started.

● ● ●

Mona May 2016

Internal Bleeding

Paramedic 1:

"He's losing so much blood."

Paramedic 2:

"It's a miracle if he can make it past this."

Saturday night, and I'm in the back of an ambulance,
But not in soul, just in body, oh and in the company of so many wires,
I can't tell where they end and where I begin,
But the paramedics say there was a tragic accident and some flying tires.

We reach the ER, my stretcher is flying on the white tiles,
And soon enough I'm greeted by more wires than I can count,
They're saying that they want to hear my heart,
So I'm opened up past layers of tissues and my heartbeat is playing aloud.

I'm somewhere in a circus, learning how to walk on a tightrope,
One arm on the verge of life, the other on the verge on death,
And my feet are stronger than they've ever been,
I'm not afraid of the fall, I'm afraid they'll see the mark I've had since birth.

And they do, I see it in the face of those people wearing white scrubs,
Their faces become the color of their operating room attire,
They don't know what to do with me,
As they come to realize what's got me here is not the flying tires.

They see my heart, a land that is home to no one,
Yet a massacre is taking place between the northerns and the southerns,
A border holding together the mismatched territories,
But there is no compromising between two armies this stubborn.

Each side wanting to flood the other, wanting to conquer,
And the small canal that was once an uncharted place of peace,
Is now holding a rowing contest to the mind of the victim - me -
Who will reach it first and incorporate their power with claws and teeth...?

It was the time to surrender, ending all attempts at making amends,
And watch cannibals sailing in rivers of blood,
They think each accelerated beat is a new victory,
Yet it was a far away cry from it, it was a new tear, a new cut.

And when each side invades the other, they claim it as their own,
But they are only emigrants thinking they can reconstruct a desert,
It was only a land of chaos, they themselves have caused,
Where was once life flowing in veins, is now where resources are tethered.

And with no winner, the end approached,
The curtains already sweeping the ground,
Doctors wiping sweat from their foreheads,
Letting the hospital gown cover the battleground.

Paramedic 2:

"Maybe there's a wife we can call, to you know ... deliver the news..."

Paramedic 1:

"It appears, he just went out for a drive in the middle of the night, with no phone or ID... not even his driver's license..."

Paramedic 2:

"Maybe it wasn't even his car..."

THE END