Month: Apr 2020

Leaving Ante: Part III

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Trauma

How do you embrace the darkness, the fog lingering in your thoughts?

The guides have dropped dead and my mind is haunted, covered in moths,

So I’m praying to hills, I want to get past this mentor-less journey alive

But the wheels are turning to the uncharted territory, pulsating cyanide.

How to forget the grave they made me dig for myself, scarring me to agony?!

Yet – the actions are excusable because only the young and terrified will write a symphony,

A melody submissive enough for their listening pleasure, a hymn for the masses.

My shoulders still ache but I never sung the lullaby,

The one veiling plastic and hourglasses.

And how do you know there’s another side to the endless, smoke filled path I’m balking?

I’ve been penniless and dull, however, never have I felt like sleepwalking.

The dust is sitting still in the unforeseeable, contaminated air I’m chasing.

I know the fog is a part of the ride, perhaps – even the seatbelt, but really…

How do I embrace it when it’s easier to forever erase it?

-JW

Leaving Ante: Part II

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Caution

Dynasties of big-mouthed Roman generals in purple crawl the streets.

Spit and rumors everywhere, bald heads bowing their dirt-filled deeds.

But it’s not cheap to do the world dirty like that, to break a promise.

I was a kid back when I heard the last speech that was humble and honest.

My hate for the leaders made me hate my father, then – anyone who mattered.

If I had the option to save a friend or myself, I would choose the latter.

Not that I’m selfish or ungrateful, but the reality is nastier than fear.

..Maybe they’re close relatives? But what’s the difference if you can’t see clear?

(When I change for worse, I don’t want anyone near.)

So I carry on with a backpack filled with past disgraces, another one with future regrets.

Yellow bandana covering my dry mouth as the moon inevitably sets.

The purple crowds keep smearing truths back at the city, and I don’t mind.

I was raised to survive this war, not to lay my head down being kind in a fight.

-JW

Leaving Ante: Part I

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Stuck

The bar doors are open and neon light falls shyly onto the crosswalk.

A stranger bumps into my bare shoulder. It won’t interrupt the sweet talk.

Cigarette ashes land on glass tables and cover my stained ruby soul.

If he didn’t ask, I would’ve never admitted that I started at the pole.

Three stools away a thoughtless wave of laughter erupts, over and over –

I see doubt in the eyes of a girl and I want to scream, this much I owe her.

The moment is gone when a bottle of wine crashes leaving red dots in the corner.

Where was my savior back then?! Was I always a fraud and a goner?

My lids feel heavy as I’m guided to another cherry-colored car.

I wonder where my self-respect went, it really can’t be that far.

But perhaps my dignity was another re-run of a wonderful mirage.

-JW

The Last Moments of Being in Love

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We’re the personification of a thunderstorm after a heated summer day.

Relief is entangled in fresh air. The daisies in my cheeks are longing for rain.

As soon as the first droplets hit the chalky ground, a lightning strikes.

With the weight of my love I push you up a hill, disturbing the butterflies.

We’re the embodiment of warm July evenings turning chilly in the blink of an eye.

Fruit trees are tired from reaching for sun-kisses. The earth is bone dry.

When the thunder rumbles over the lonely fields, you’re carrying me deeper into the twilight zone –

Might as well run through the dark, the rain is so heavy it feels as if we have blinders on.

We’re the epitome of the golden hour paused by some biting wind.

The chimes are rocking back and forth, calling me saint right after I’ve sinned.

Rosy sky trickles down so quick, burns our skins aimlessly, like a pint of lava.

But we’re taken by the touch, we don’t see it.

When they’re asking which vices to erase, we both whisper “nada”.

-JW

Seven Feet: Candy’s Monologue

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Seven feet of sand was never quite enough to bury my pride.

Half a dozen sprained ankles on dreamy boulevards, but I’m there for the ride.

The thirst is pumping my vessels, it gets the blood rushing –

And the spring smells funny, so candy-like. Am I blushing?

Sweet sugar coats my fingers, oh man, I’m just shooting my shot.

Don’t be the saint – save the prayers and hymns, and whatnots.

You can’t deny my blame but I carry the scarlet letter well.

The Central Park Salinger wrote about is long gone, but so is the spell –

The charm, the colors, the old ways… All soaked in champagne.

Tinsel-filled parties taste so bittersweet, and they end in migraines.

But I’ll let you take a number, sorry it’s colored in blood barely dried –

Seven feet of sand was never quite enough to bury my pride.

-JW

April

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Whenever April comes around, I have this need to sleep by an open window.

The air is so heated and charged, I can’t brush it off. I need to feel the wind blow.

The fire in my bones is harsh to my body, I want the power to go out with a bang.

Whenever April comes around, another lover becomes a treat to my hungry fangs.

I’ve been dying of thirst for a cool spring breeze since I was bitterly seventeen.

No psychic wise enough, no fortune teller prosperous enough to crack my spleen –

But maybe a genie in the bottom of the bottle will tell another revolting story.

I wish I could stand up a little bit taller instead of being sorry.

We’re a dying breed, and we’re choking on antimony.

Whenever April comes, my insides throw a funeral – and I’m leading the ceremony.

-JW

Trigger

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No longer noticing airplanes over your house, it’s lonely these days.

The sky is empty. Only two pink clouds and a few lost sunrays.

Used to imagine that planes were stars guarding your thoughts.

Wished on a shooting hope but it didn’t work.

Horizon is covered in blank spots. A goddamn mirage.

The view out of my window seemed picturesque back then.

For a stranger passing it looked like a dollhouse, time and again.

Now the walls are too pale and the dust settles on my skin.

I’m pulling my hand away from the trigger so often –

Not often enough, much to my own chagrin.

The sunset feels Photoshopped, and I don’t know what to say.

For the first time I wanted to take your hand, I wanted to stay.

Now my foolish body is filled with butterflies with nowhere to run.

We might not have the stars or the airplanes, and screw that –

I really wish that I’m still the only one.

-JW

Quitting

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They say: “I wish you truly saw yourself and your worth.”

And no matter how I swear that I do, they remain deaf

When I respond – I’m not self-conscious, I’m just bored,

They say: “I wish you weren’t a perfectionist, that’s so destructive.”

Not a single day they’ve chased anything they believed in

But they’re teaching me how to be productive?

They say: “I have this big dream, brighter than yours, and I’ll make it work.”

No backbone, no life lessons, no time for my small successes.

But they’re always surprised that I listen to them with an obvious smirk.

They say: “I don’t have time right now but when I do, I’ll force myself back into your life as if your universe revolves around me. Doesn’t it? Please make time, not excuses.”

…

I was patiently waiting for the right time to speak up but no more.

There’s no friend in someone whose ego depends on digging open your bruises.

There’s no friend in someone who doesn’t hear when you refuse,

There’s no friend in someone who only abuses

When the time is right, when it’s perfectly fitting…

For months now I’ve been dreaming about quitting,

And I promised I won’t take up dreams without fully committing

So here we go.

-JW

Spineless

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Something in my glass tastes like misery and I wonder –

Maybe the green colored glasses have gotten under my skin.

All the lights are emerald, and maybe I’m the one you wanted?

Maybe I’m the missing safety pin?

***

Promises are cheap, betrayal is priceless –

Honey, I’ll never sell the stab wounds in my back.

(Ironic, of course, they came from someone who’s spineless.)

But my love for you was low-cost so I burned the almanac.

-JW

The Circle Game

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Oh, be careful reflecting your self-worth on me.

One second you’re editing me, the next you’re neck-deep, drowning in hate for yourself,

You no longer have the sense or the means to not be self-destructive,

and visibly

There’s something that needs to be reattached to your ego, but you’re sitting on your ice shelf.

Cold. Eager to watch me cramping in frozen waters.

I won’t though. You’re riding the high horse,

Sipping on insecurities which only makes it sadder,

Pretending I had it bad, but you’ve got it worse.

Be careful reflecting your self-worth on me.

I don’t appear in mirrored reflections of superficial surfaces,

and visibly

You’re upset I didn’t wait for you while the selfishness passes.

But I don’t write my poems for you. I write them for the masses.

-JW