Month: Apr 2021

The City’s Alive

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The windows of the old pharmacy glow loud in the pitch black night.

I’m at the street corner you left me on, facing my oversights.

The wires over my head get me buzzed like cheap dandelion wine

And a neon cross escapes the church, it slides down the steep decline.

Blue eyes peer out of gates and doorframes, looking for my scent.

The bricks from painted walls tell them, “We don’t know where she went.”

I sneak around parks, hide behind gravestones until the coast is clear,

Until the city whistles louder than wind – so my frightful ears can hear.

The last shadows of the night help me to pave the long way back home,

And the cars hum in unison, erasing the cool fear of ever feeling alone.

As long as I keep waltzing faster, I know I’ll escape all the harm.

This city will wrap me like a blanket, it’ll hold onto me like a charm.

-JW

Note #405

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I know this silly story like a bland Bible verse.

You offer me comfort – the inside of a hearse.

Because the ease you preach is a fine excuse

For worshiping nothing else but your abuse.

And your teeth get sharper every damn morning,

I have to run on empty to chase the four winds.

Your lips keep smiling but they feel loaded

With chemicals that would kill me like a rodent.

But I’m not the rat that you’ve been hunting,

You always seem oblivious to this one thing:

If you want to see your true enemy clearer,

You simply have to take a look in the mirror.

-JW

The Lock

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These walls echo my downfalls but stay deadly silent about the glistening highs.

One could argue I built them for myself, god, don’t re-examine my alibis.

Each morning the dread keeps forgetting itself – and maybe there’s even a chance

For me to escape what I’ve created, lose the lead sprinklers I got for hands.

But I can’t get past the chain link fences, like a spell they push me back inside.

The hellhounds I welcomed in this home know all the escape plans I lazily hide.

The floor spins on its axis, it melts away until there’s nothing for me to land on.

There’s wind on my skin but I can’t see the door, it’s covered by a phantom.

I keep hearing them say – you have to break these abysmal loops on your own,

And, god, I know I’ve built them myself, but would it kill you to pick up the phone?

Even if it’s a beast of my own creation, do I have to break out of its head alone?

Because I swear there’s one unknown lock on my gate,

Cast in envy green stone.

-JW

Your Left Lung

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You questioned whether the city isn’t overwhelming me these days,

I hid little anxieties in the rasp of my voice when whispering the “nays”.

Maybe just by an accident or a loop in the system you truly believed

That on Sunday nights I’m not punching the stewing hot air in my sleep.

You saw me crumble behind the walls, you crumpled up my courage,

And the city was to blame for all my fear lacking proper storage.

The others stared in disbelief and their fury made my nostrils flared,

Somehow I carried my worries home as my silly pride got bared.

And you condemned my choices but still talked about every single one.

This blame game is the worst side-effect of living behind the gun.

My trigger finger shakes when you run marathons with your tongue

But I’ve never wasted a bullet – so you can rumour away your left lung.

-JW

The Snake Pit

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Muted spring mist wraps around my ankles like poisonous snakes.

I’m bathing in vivid daydreams

But it hisses me wide awake.

I trip on my faint honesty, landing straight on the jagged edges

Of all that I couldn’t leave behind

In hotel rooms and on filthy ledges.

My temper drags me down to the bottom but who can blame it?

If you stain the first November snow,

You might as well paint it.

And you might as well drop the acts you’ve been lugging around.

Get rid of the sentiment,

Leave it at the lost and found.

So I stumble towards the sunlight, getting lighter, floating with my sins.

Some keep pointing out the exits,

No, I can’t take the hints.

I know it’s a race against the clock and I’m here running on empty.

But the snakes can only bite if I whisper:

“Please, help me.”

Therefore I seal my lips and move along stealthy.

-JW

Some Grace

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There was some grace in our bones back in the golden days,

The knots in our chest didn’t set themselves ablaze like hay.

The guns we carried in our tongues only hurt on Sunday nights

And the batteries in our chests didn’t lose spite or light.

We spun faster but landed gently on fire-proof conclusions,

Nowadays we let the inferno rain as the most merciful solution.

The safety triggers stay buried like old tales for naïve kids,

But still – we almost feel sorry for blowing off these rusty lids.

The sun only shines on us by accident and we somehow thank it,

As if the world itself met us and asked for a safety blanket.

And they keep spitting up poison when preaching grand forgiveness,

It seems that they only speak up to polish their crumbling business.

Hence I put down the iron keys and walk away from the fright,

Some say I’m the only one to risk it – and perhaps they’re even right.

Not that I have time to hear them out, I must step out in the rays.

There’s some grace in the flesh that doesn’t preach the olden ways.

-JW

The Hell’s Guardian

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The first sudden shock to the muscle releases the loudest scream,

From there on out it’s a joy ride within a red beam.

Don’t worry, you’ll get used to the pleas and begs for pardon,

You’ll notice the little things and your heart will harden.

Once the sweat drips on the strings, they’ll play like an orchestra

But don’t lick the cords, you’ll become the first jester.

It’s not an interrogation – just a discussion about hereafter

So hold back their cries, hold back the roaring laughter.

Focus on your duty, don’t snoop around closed gates at night.

If the devil’s entourage walks the halls, get out of sight.

Don’t look them in the eye when they pass by the tinted windows,

Stay in your post and only go where the wind blows.

Sully the words you swore by in the uniform you once cherished.

If we’re honest today, you’ve long been perished.

So go on, let yourself get high on the lingering scent of fear,

Let their screams be the last song you ever hear.

-JW

The Visitor

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When the attic door creeks, it’s a bit too late to leave.

Tell the crimson in your cheeks to fade out once you bleed.

When the curtains slightly rattle, only then choose your battle.

Enter the last raffle before you drop the selfish prattle.

Sneak behind the dusty closet, just ensure that you close it,

And keep the fear in your pocket, it will be your last deposit.

Grasp the rug with your nails if all these other tricks fail.

Lower your white sails while the others chase their tails.

Never make a confession while looped in a deadly obsession.

You must only use the Hessian if you want to hear the question.

And when the back door creeks, collapse on your own feet.

Tell the nerves in your beak, “We’ve made it another week”.

-JW

The Steely Sky

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There’s this moment each evening when the town goes monochrome –

Nothing but an alien shade spilled over the surfaces, nothing but chrome.

The clouds are grey, the streets are grey and the buildings are grey.

The sun says its goodbyes to another vibrant whirlwind of a day.

And whenever the grey wraps the town in the silky blanket of the night,

I see your house lighting up like a tower of the most gleeful light.

Right over the hill you turn on every single bulb in your possession

To fight the numbness away, and maybe even to teach it a lesson.

I’m not that sure it’s truly you, standing there with your flesh and bones,

But I haven’t seen your face in a year so I hope you’re also this alone.

Once the first drops of ink get added to the steely sky, I close my blinds.

There’s this moment each evening when I wish

That ten wrongs could make a single right.

-JW

Beating The Reflection

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It doesn’t get much easier when the mirror is no longer lying

Because you can’t take back the bullets,

Can’t take back the prying.

Once you were trying so hard to beat the broken reflection

But it was never playing your game

Of zero love and affection.

Now you have to thoroughly question – why does it cut you still

Whenever the night puts its claws

On your windowsill?

But as long as you swallow it like a bitter pill each morning,

I don’t think there’s a reason

For senseless mourning.

There’s peace in the mirror image getting boring and plain

And even if it doesn’t get easier,

It takes away the pain.

-JW