Oh, where do I begin…
Do I begin at my inability to
close my eyelids,
Or begin to wonder when my dreams
will form again?
Strange that the last time I slept
I remembered the whistling of leaves
bashing against the window,
With branches holding on with a grip,
More fierce than teeth grasping
onto speech,
It’s these nights when my lack of sleep
turn into hours of cold blue
blood feeling warm, so redness
of ink can leak
onto once wood, now lost white sheets.
Hours upon hours thinking about love
and happiness between my palms,
and days I spend in the mosque
reading AlFatiha and attempting to
execute verses in the Qur’an.
My mother, always stressed to me that
sleeping early is key to dreaming
about beautiful things…
Beautiful things I imagine to be like
walking in the park when autumn
leaves fall onto me and
falling in love with goals I scored
on the football pitch.
Holding hands with the Woman
I plan to marry.
Sleepless nights,
are my reason for writing.
…or should I say typing
on a smartphone, when my rooms dark
and I’m laying on my chest,
Pressing away with my fingerprints
all over the screen.
I eventually meet sleep halfway through
dreaming of drafting a masterpiece,
Coz poets rarely write finished pieces,
It’s me thinking I can go back to
an “unfinished” piece of business,
Negotiating with my rubber
If that last line needed to be extended
or deleted.
I beg my day’s adventure to let my hair
colour the pillows again.
Let my, so called “journal” empty itself
onto blank pages.
Just so I can imagine how it feels
like to sleep
during the same hours
as everybody else.
By, Mohamed Mohamed
Blog: Mo Rhymes Da Poet
Twitter: @MoRhymesDaPoet
nice post
ReplyDeleteWondrous post.I'm impressed that you are writing so good..writing is something that every one can't do.It's the concern of patient people and you are surely one of those.Thanks for sharing it.
ReplyDelete