The monsters under my bed keep craving pure flesh,
The nails on their feet scratch harder when I try to start fresh.
But there isn’t a real bone in my broken body
So I never scream when they aim to cut or disarm me.
The monsters under my bed are stabbing my back,
Whenever I switch on the screen, they paint the room black.
And I know their feeding, they’re growing stronger each time
I let them pull me into the burning limelight.
-JW
Nothing lonelier on this planet than the idea of you
I abandoned in the wasteland so many moons ago.
Nothing harsher than what I said after thinking through:
“If one of us leaves, the broken one will still be you.”
But you kept swaying your fists at me in full speed,
Crashing porcelain promises, covering all the leads.
My back can take far worse, you can’t make me bleed.
Even with all the force, you can’t outrun my breed.
And you can no longer walk over me like you used to
When your spell was the only curse I would lose to.
Gather your tales and go tell someone else I used you.
There will come a time you will accept
You’re defused, too.
-JW
The spring is back in town
And my crowns are no longer made of wires.
Blossoms and moss grow on blood, crusty brown,
Spreading vaporized desires.
The leaves tickle slightly
As dazzling sweat trickle down the back.
You promised not to take my cries lightly
But the spring stole your tact.
My senses get attacked
With the vivid smell of primrose and tulip.
The chains around my wrists, once deep black,
Now clear and lucid.
The sun climbs in fast leaps
Over the tiresomely arrogant brick towers.
Its white light is a sweet, sweet release,
And I collapse in flowers.
-JW
And sometimes your love leaves only a faint spark.
Nobody ever follows you into the dark.
Parting the seven seas seems like a distant memory,
An over-dreamt future we once treated like a legacy.
And your boots get more tired than you ever do
When they call you out for feeling black and blue.
What else there is to say than “light me up”,
Burn your life’s belongings in a rusty iron cup.
But let them eat your feelings with killing knives
Until they’re drenched in revenge, fully satisfied.
Because sometimes love burns in crimson heresy –
So beware the wicked selling you your own legacy.
Let that darkness out the chimneys, let it go up,
Throw the sparks in the air until laughter erupts.
-JW
I want to weep flowers on your whitest grave
In the middle of a burnt out winter –
No ashes left to save.
I want to tear my skin open in sharp waves
And sacrifice the shards to those
Hiding in voids and caves.
I want to drop on my knees in an empty field,
Sell the words I promised to save,
Sell all the golden shields.
I want to melt hot candlewax into my tears
And fall headfirst into the flames,
Bursting the atmosphere.
-JW
The end of this chapter is closer than you would think.
All good things fall apart, all dark things dissolve,
Glimmers kill in a blink.
Light is locked inside of your neck, just let it slip out,
Let it take over the crevices of your house,
Take over the town.
Each shadowy corner is haunted hence I fail to see
What do you have to lose if you free it?
Is it not the fantasy?
Yet – you hold back the rays with your own bullet holes.
You outrun the sun with sawed off guns
To escape getting close.
But the blood cannot block out the truth much longer
So either dim the lights forever
Or die already a goner.
-JW
Sore gashes stitching themselves together
Under full moon, through freezing weather.
Some still fear the threads and needles
So they fall on the ground,
Pretending they’re feeble.
Shoes glued to the asphalt, nowhere to go,
Each wrongful movement makes you glow
And once you’re shiny enough to see
They’ll include you
In the next killing spree.
Silver liquids poured into scarlet eyes
Until the palest lips loudly apologize.
But those who don’t seem to ever learn
End up protesting
In an unlocatable urn.
-JW
The sparks dance around in your gaze,
Spin through the candle light in all their grace,
And for a moment it’s easy to imagine –
Our souls are something more than voids
Labelled “extremely fragile”.
The lanterns rain down in warm flakes,
Painting the night and its seven remakes.
Whenever you part your lips to speak,
Your voice drips like melted wax,
Deep, enticing and sleek.
The fire inside purifies my misdeeds,
Untangles the stories with missed leads.
A minute more and I’ll be weightless –
Ready to fall without second guessing
Into your oasis.
-JW
It is time to put down the archaic tools, stop writing the story on a typewriter.
Crisp electric impulses pick up my hands, make the limp thoughts a ton lighter.
The system wants to eat too, it craves to lose my awards in a tiresome shuffle
But the blossoms on my shoulders cannot wait to push you towards a new scuffle.
You beg of me to quit spilling the truths over newspapers you used to own.
The ground shakes more and more as others realize – the cover is fully blown.
Some shredded pages mix with the February snow, what an idyllic scenery.
While you burn the belongings I left behind,
The smoke lingers over all your thievery.
-JW
If you promise a pound of flesh, you must deliver.
If you promise two, you must also give away the liver.
Even when you do not recall a blood oath made,
You must pull yourself into pieces
In the spirit of fair trade.
When the devil comes to collect your debts again,
Tell it to go and bleed dry your best friends instead.
To survive, you must really focus on existing
And you cannot do that with pride
Or morals in your system.
After all that has been done, you should remember –
One day you will not be able to blame your bad temper
For wilfully slipping deeper into the machine.
But you cannot admit it
So you swear by the silver screen.
-JW
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 