Category: Other

Picking Wildflowers

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There’s a meadow I visit in the loneliest of hours,

A meadow I disguised so it could be just ours.

I walk through it barefoot even when the bees sting,

Even when the peace is over and a blade is the king.

My basket fills with various poisonous flowers.

I pluck them ‘til I run out of my made-up powers.

Then I set the sunny field on fire with my hexes,

Sparks flying violently from my solar plexus.

The leaves burst into diamonds and crescent moons

Highlighting the dimness of these pale noons.

And I waltz back home through the deep forests

Wishing my wildflowers will make a man honest.

There I get my pipettes and spatulas in order –

I bought these after you called me a hoarder.

Drop by drop the deadly mixture comes alive.

My mind is buzzing roaringly like a hive.

And you beg for forgiveness but I can’t hear,

I get high on the sound of your worst fear.

So I hold the goblet and ask you once more:

“Who are you to rob me of all the valour?”

-JW

Red

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The Red is piercing my skin and pushing furious tentacles out of my neck.

With every heartbeat the scene turns brighter, I’m caught in a self-made wreck.

The green contact lenses I’m wearing can’t hide the pressure raising within,

I know my eyes glow in sultry carmine, I know I’ve lost my linchpin.

The nails click on surfaces, they dig into walls, they pull out my own hair.

The Red comes in waves and it leaves me crying for a chance to fight fair.

But they own my guts and let me sleep in them, too, just for another payday –

So I snap at myself for reasons unknown, convinced that I’m their prey.

The Red punishes me, it holds my nerve ends under deadly avalanches.

Fixing the damage feels like welding together burned and broken branches.

And soon enough every part of my torso is covered in a crown of flames

So I let the yet untamed Red out to play with its creators,

The instigators of my deep shame.

-JW

My Bastille

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I try hard to hold my past still

But it’s leaking putrid pastels.

Is there a point to hold on

To this forgotten echelon?

My legs keep being restless,

I can even taste the stress.

Is it my wishful thinking

Or can I sleep while blinking?

Or maybe we just pretend

That burning out is not a trend?

I try to tie the blasts in twill,

They try to forge my last will.

And I wonder – how come

I must always please the scum?

They never have to fix the stencil

If we agree to stand still.

But my feet keep running cold

While they trade our heat for gold.

So I spit out the foul pastil

And let my ego storm the Bastille.

-JW

Between The Pileus Clouds Of Her Hometown

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Her auburn hair falls into my eyes, gets tangled up with my lashes –

But only in my sleep, only when I patch up the crimson slashes.

Her curls lay on the pillows and flow on the perfectly white duvet,

A memory I can barely remember, a memory drawn in clay.

The iridescent pileus clouds swim peacefully over her hometown –

I try my best to recall that this place was never our common ground.

We tried to make houses out of cardboard boxes and compulsive lies.

The walls didn’t stand the test of time, they collapsed after our highs.

My pillows have sharp teeth nowadays, they bite me with pure rage –

Yet I still wish on a falling star, beg for the love of my dying mage.

But she doesn’t hear my cries, no, she’s chosen to look away –

My feeble ego convulses, collecting the blowback in an ashtray.

There’s a blizzard outside and an ice storm rising in my very own chest –

Her sweet warmth feels too adjacent… I mustn’t surrender or ever rest.

Maybe the hunger will implode one day, maybe it will survive,

And we’ll keep reaching for one another to prove we’re barely alive.

-JW

Killing Friends

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The leaves were covered in frozen mist during that October sunrise,

Birds chirped their goodbyes through the glistening clouds

And there was this emptiness the beauty couldn’t suffice.

Chilly tombstones surrounded us both as far as the eye could see.

An unspoken promise and mystery arose in the silence

But your glance twitched in horror, not in glee.

“What does it take to kill a friend?” I wondered to myself mischievously

As the city reminded us of its wandering ways with loud honks,

Taking us out of the delirious sleep.

“You told me to take you away but what’s the catch?” I spoke up.

My sweater wasn’t warm enough to keep the breezes away.

I was too focused to feel hopeful.

Internally you pleaded with your own shame, with your own instincts.

“You can’t outrun me now, it’s painfully obvious,

But your body will try once the adrenaline stings.”

We stood wordlessly for a moment more, then you bolted for the street.

I enjoy a good chase, yet – this was a mediocre one at best.

Every lion has to hunt, every hunter has to eat.

The leaves were covered in frozen red droplets during that October sunrise,

Birds fled for cover towards the stormy autumn clouds

And there was beauty to it no emptiness could replace.

-JW

Emptying The Guns

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And she painted her rooms black, every edge, every single wall.

The intruders thought she’d gone mad when visiting her that fall.

No one asked out loud though, they let it slide for the sake of it all.

She painted her rooms black, then laid on the floor dressed in white

Just to feel small.

And she cut off her long hair, she shortened her skirts and dresses.

The grass tickled her thumbs when she ran away from all the messes –

No one seemed to notice though, no one ever stopped the presses.

She cut off her hair and sold half of her closet,

She burned up their old addresses.

And she walked for miles gasping every time the glass cut open her skin,

The people throughout the city promised to cut off her fins.

No one said it but the intention was clear – no witch, no sin.

She walked the city, and each blade they pushed in her back

Felt like a tiny pin.

And she carried on, walked even faster, and readied her boats.

The village folks triumphantly whispered, “Witches never float.”

No one screamed in pain, they simply collapsed all at once.

She’s carried this weight for decades,

Let her finally empty the guns.

-JW

The Unholy Visitor

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A cigar in one steady hand, a red rose in the other.

She comes closer, cryptically bewinged and unbothered,

Ashes on her grey dress, she’s so pathetic.

There’s stillness in her movements, it’s ironically hectic.

Currant coloured blood trickling through the cherry nails.

She leaves a slimy path behind her, irony and stale.

The dress soaks up some of the liquid as she sways.

Her legs are bruised and shoes have seen some better days.

With the pale face partially hidden behind a shiny mask

She ogles, her presence feels holier than Pasch,

The fabric of her dress burns, it takes my heart’s place.

I want to kneel, I want to preach, I want to praise.

My limbs stay still as the floor kisses my forehead.

She whispers things I can’t repeat, tales lustrous and morbid,

As the touch of her fragile fingers slowly fades away…

Ominous silence snaps me back into a dusk, silver grey.

-JW

The Race Of The Lucky Ones

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Another heart beats on, not mine, not yours,

The heart of an innocent being,

Gentle lashes and velvet pores.

We wonder why the world is weeping.

Another one passes by, not me, not you,

Would’ve been neck and neck,

This race for the promised youth,

But we couldn’t pay in a cheque.

Another frozen soul neither here nor there

Caught up in icy words and neglect.

I do know why, I do know where

The ship that sailed was always decked.

Another day droops through my fingers –

And yours,

But the snow stays in our hair,

The bitterness lingers.

We’re such fools for fighting fair.

-JW

Rising

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Brave the winds, brave the winds, brave the winds.

The waves are going to drown you out,

Crash you on needles and pins.

Brave the winds, brave the winds, brave the winds.

The stream is circling around, let it hold you

And do not wince.

Crash the tide, crash the tide, crash the tide.

We are dry as a bone, we are dying

With nobody by our side.

Crash the tide, crash the tide, crash the tide.

The foam is blocking our tracheas.

Let me lose my breath before I lose my mind.

-JW

Conjure The Storms

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“You never write about bright things and calm meadows,”

She says laughingly, cocooned in white blankets,

Sipping on Bordeaux.

“You don’t mention honeycombs or the soft skin of your lovers,”

She whispers leaning closer, teasingly smirking

Over the covers.

And she’s not wrong, her sweet breath makes my shoulders tense

But I’d rather trade this all away

Than give my life a tinsel-lens.

She’s always right to call out my sad little trope of a life

Whenever I drown too fast in its glory,

Yet – I’d never be dressed in white.

“Hold back your “sorry”s before you paint my pages all vivid,”

I sigh, anxiously spinning a pen in my cramping fingers.

She feels so livid.

When I gather the courage to look back at her surprised face,

I don’t notice a tear or a wrinkle,

She knows she’s won this case.

“And you’ve been put in this world only to conjure the storms,”

She mumbles to herself, graciously, ferociously.

The bites in her stare come in swarms.

-JW