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Best Poems Written by Ziya Momin

Below are the all-time best Ziya Momin poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Traffic Jam

The sand from the hourglass is slipping through the cracks between my fingers. 
as I track my time in increments,
regulated, rhythmic, redundant.
the weekends coming, 
it’s almost winter break.
I think, as I fail to realize that I am watching time pass me by 
like I'm standing on the side of the road watching the cars drive by 
instead of being in one, 
controlling the wheel and pressing the gas.
I catch a glimpse of an empty car parked on the side of the road,
desperately scrambling towards it,
my hair whipping around my face,
obscuring my vision, 
clouding my judgement.
I try and try and try to push it away—
but it keeps coming back.
drive, drive, drive,
a voice tells me.
as I steady my shivering, shaking hands grasping the wheel. 
don't, 
my hair hisses.
encircling my face with the grip of a vice
tighter, and tighter, then black.

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Downfall

What to do with the remains of a man carved hollow?
After years of war and struggle and hardship, 
when his love is stripped away, 
his morals stolen by the thief of time.
The people tear him open, then feasting on his open flesh;
What shall the monster do?
He shall retaliate, crushing everything in his path, his sights set on one thing. 
To return to his love. 
He's already fought blood and bone with the public, now his biggest enemy awaits. 
He sits at the edge of the lake, peering at his reflection below.
The battle with the toughest monster has now officially begun. 
The universe is a jester and his torturous existence is one of its many jokes. 
His eyes wander to the stars dotting the sky above.
They are blazing lies of hope, veiled by the false promise of a granted wish.
Oh, man definitely has a wish. Man is greedy. 
He longs for his love.
His ray of light in the darkness, the gentle breeze that clears his storm. 
The Earth beneath him recoils, rejecting the weight of what he has become.
His hands curl into fists-- yet the battle is long over.  
He tumbles into the lake. He sinks and sinks. 
Clawing at anything, absolutely anything to save himself from plunging,
His desperate screams ripped from his throat as he plummets deeper and deeper. 
His sudden drop is cushioned by two gentle limbs. 
He looks up, and meets someone's eyes-- gentle and familiar.  
Fingers threading through the tattered sinew of his soul, 
Winding and mending the broken remains of him back together. 
Monster falls apart. He has never looked so small in his entire life. 
The ghost of unsaid words bubble up as his breath dissolves into the water. 
No war, no battle had ever unraveled him like this. 
No enemy had left him this bare and vulnerable.
Not a warrior, not even a monster. 
Just a man.
And nothing in this world is more fragile, more doomed-- 
Than a man with nothing left.

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Cloaked Destiny

Death is in relentless pursuit. 
It pervaded my thoughts, 
assaulted my senses.
I scramble, rerouting courses.
A thousand voices call out my name.
Taunts, screams, cries alike. 
Yearning, warning;
Calling, crying;
Run, run, run.
Run through the phantasmagoric vicinity-- 
The end is not far.
A hooded figure speaks my name, 
its voice benignant-- a mere whisper,
Unlike prior haunting echoes.
It beckons me over with an extended arm. 
My pursuer, waiting for me like an old friend. 
I was only shadowed by my own fate, 
pulled by my destiny.

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The Circle of Life

I never really minded the species that inhabited me. 
I had especially taken a liking to man, however. 
"I'll take care of you.", they promised. 
I believed it-- 
We became interdependent, inseparable.
He relied on me, and I relied on Him.
I gave Him food, water, and air, He gave me towering buildings that grasped at my atmosphere. 
It was perfect;
Until it wasn't. 
As time went on, man began cutting down my trees for the pages to write their own stories with. 
Their tales will be woven between my pages, ink stains the skin I shed for Him. 
And with my help, their stories will thrive.
Remain utterly, completely, 
timeless.

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Lunar Eclipse

The moon would be a dull, gray rock without the Sun's light. 
An opinion would be a thought without one's voice. 
A man would be useless without a purpose.
So, all the men that stand before me are nothing, 
as they brandish their swords;
squeezing the hilt like my throat, 
constricting the words from it before they're even spoken.
My men were tethered to Earth, 
they tortured themselves daily for fleeting escape. 
My luminous glow was their temptation, their envy. 
As I was the moon; 
a quiet beauty that spoke volumes. 
My men chip away at my craters, their shadow swallowing the Sun's last rays. 
I am now a rock;
Stoic, rigid. 
Ruthless. Ruinous. 
The light drained from my now-hollowed features.
A merciless wreckage pounded into rock, hollowed from its light.

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winter

shivering, i curse
the frigid, uncaring wind
the sun shines elsewhere

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Fragments of the Broken

to me,
my laugh sounds like nails on a chalkboard
a fork scraping a plate
a baby screaming
a ceramic vase shattering
with every shudder and shake of my shoulders,
a shard of ceramic pierces my throat
over,
and over,
and over again,
until i am physically unable to let out another sound
and my body is just the shell containing a little girl
who just wants to laugh again
to express her joy again
without being pierced by the fragments of the broken

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Silence

Has anyone ever told you the truth about isolation? 
No, not the tranquil kind. 
The one with a physical presence. 
The one that coils around you and squeezes until you implode. 
Where you’re alone, but you’re not really alone, 
surrounded by a tangible darkness, 
suddenly hyper-aware of every single thought that flickers through your consciousness. 
Suffer in silence, they say. 
Celebrate in silence, they forget to add. 
It’s like a one-man circus,
Orchestrating impossible feats alone. 
And when they laugh, I’m crestfallen.
“Don’t rain on my parade” 
I sob, 
standing at the bottom of the lake.

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Messy

Sometimes, I physically feel unable to clean my room.
Not because I’m lazy, or disorganized. 
Rather, because as I’m sitting cross legged on my floor, with various papers, trinkets, awards, and possessions around me
I just can’t find anything worth discarding. 
My pink monkey plush, it’s stuffing spilling out?— no, that was the plush he gave me. 
My frayed bracelet, adorned with beads representing each of the seven planets?— no, it’s a representation of the best point in my life. 
Each item serves as a trophy— a prize I’ve unlocked for every chapter of my life. 
I want to lock it up in an exhibit, for others to curiously peer into, attempting to connect the dots of my life using a broken hair tie, a crumpled two dollar bill, and a big green teddy bear.

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Bloodlust

Bloodthirsty, flesh-hungry. 
I was schooled 
into turning off my heart.
Anything for the title,
for the power. 
Power. 
Power: 
an intangible weapon- 
a considerable price. 
There are still more pressing matters. 
Bloodlust. 
Looming over my shoulder
like a shadow, 
contorting in the light, 
a quiet beauty 
that speaks volumes
through the lenses 
of a monster.