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Mona Jan 2017
Hold my hand,
As sandcastles become mansions,
A world never heard of before.

A violet sunset,
Painted just how I like,
A new opportunity knocks on my door.

And everyday,
A new arrangement of notes,
flutters with both our waking eyes.

Ready to give and receive,
everything today brings,
Inspired by the intermingling shades of the sky.

And when we meet
the end of the spectrum,
we shall run off to our midnight dreams.

Eager to spill the parts
of the night that hound us,
and our need to jump into the tones in between.

Be there,
For when my spine bows,
To everything aiming directing at me.

And in the end,
The sun will set,
The world will take us where we're meant to be.

Just know,
That I enjoyed walking
Down the white and black keys offered

with you..

And when the lights come on,
The city illuminated
like two hearts connected to one another

I'll remember you.*

•●•
Mona Jan 2017
Two streets away
I imagine myself walking
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes

Waking up with the world
As its beauty is still pale
Not yet mixed with the car exhausts

Two streets away
Is the silver wavy water
As it tries to imitate the sky

Bike wheels floating above the roads
Runners racing the sun
Music spilling from that one headphone.

Two streets away
I imagine my blouse fighting the morning breeze
The benches filled with the flowers' happy tears

The streets hinting of awakening,
As the shy face of the peeking sun
Warms the hidden chilliness 

Simplicity is the key
Without man's rough hands
Everything is just being itself

***** feet,
Asleep on yesterday's damage
Not yet awake to indulge in more*

● ● ●
September 2014
Mona Jan 2017
Lately, all the days have been turning into Mondays,
A job for the sun and a career for the moon,
A pencil sketched world with only shades of gray,
Stuck in sharp angles with no curves any soon.

Now Night is a Canson paper
Static with no signs of life

No room for poetry
nor the power of imagination

It's only a time for hours of sleep,
Eight to be precise

Behind the curtains
Dreams wait for an invitation

So I'm calling for all the stars to come nurse this disaster,
To bring back nights when staring out the window was enough,
I'm calling for them to patch all the hearts that ruptured,
To free those practical minds out of their handcuffs.
Mona Jan 2017
Are people separated
by bodies?
Boundaries where one person
should end,
That's like saying
this square inch of the sky,
Is where my line of sight
shall extend.

How can I ask you
not to spill
Parts of your thoughts
into my mind,
Can I open the faucet
at the end of the day,
And the warm water will clean
the blues left behind..

Do the muscles of a heart
carry the weight of one?
Separating the troubles
in terms of origin,
Those I'll feel less,
those I'll feel more,
And today no one
shall make it past the doormen..!

I don't think we could
dissect,
The parts of us that intrude
past the physical lines,
Or close the shutters
to a strong wind,
In an aim to keep our
happy currents confined.

Where does one person
end?
How can people turn their backs
when the sky gets dark,
I'm balancing too many
fragments of people,
And the world is dispersed,
I don't know how far I can walk.*

•●•
Mona Jan 2017
We're sitting next to a sunset,
The weather says how are you today,
Staring at the blue horizon,
For a moment you thought it'd stay,
But then it leaves like it always does,
And all the blue birds learn to fly,
Fueled by a sinking fear,
That they might disappear into the night,
When was the last time,
That it was okay, to be so juvenile,
A word lost in a closed book,
To judge life by a cover so beautiful.

We sat and talked in the looming warmth,
The sun's not gone, the waters are blue,
Tracing the peaceful tracks in our mind,
Twilight's shadow cast over the greys we drew,
And the dream was looped,
It started from the beginning every few seconds,
Dooming truths as illusions in this world,
Where memories are made from our favorite color palettes,
But oh sleep unlinked our hands,
As it branched into the shades of morning,
Once again your hair covered your face,
And our days went back to their habit of forking.*

● ● ●
Mona Jan 2017
All the angels are asleep,
Their shadow selves on the earth open their third eyes,
In the hypnotizing light of the moon,
You must learn to tiptoe between carefully crafted lies.

And in the scarce everglow
Of informality, we sail past a once safe territory,
Trying to impose a new way of survival,
Guided by a thin rope of our frail telepathy.

On islands doomed with demons' names,
We maneuver our demeanors on the peripheries of black holes,
One slip of a condemned tongue,
Is all it shall take to elicit an inevitable fall.

Don't fall for the horizon in view,
And never concede to promises made by Time,
The angels could never wake,
And then you'd forever tiptoe in this infernal night.*

•●•
Mona Jan 2017
I take my straight lines and curve them for you,
Latching onto a tomorrow obscured from view,
'Cause as long as your empire towers over the days,
I'll mold to the ground to make this route one way.

My heart is matted for all your fist sized questions,
In a clean fashion, color coded answers are my defenses,
And my head twirls through volcanoes till it's desensitized,
A kind expression is all that your pleasantness comprises.

My memories are calenders unfurling with ink,
Cardboard supports my back for when the pages are flipped,
Hand gestures and one-word replies designed into loops,
So that the automatic reflexes start after a reboot.

Backgrounds have lost their intensities to a lone figure,
Every slip on a thin distraction calls for a trigger,
Stained-glass windows tell the story of a shadow in motion,
And the interior swears the remnants of a soul will never be awoken.

● ● ●
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