Category: Other

Undecided

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Photo by Syed Hasan Mehdi from Pexels

It’s just another evening of me burying you in bejewelled falsities,

Dragging you down the rockiest paths, dusting you with faux niceties.

My moods swing and dance violently in circles, just like the Saturn rings,

But you’re patiently collecting my poisonous words even if it stings.

Will you stay when I’m needy, will you stay when I forget myself?

I’ve asked my reflection and she’s undecided, begging me to get help.

Yet you keep holding onto the sails when the winds hit our discounted ship,

When the glass flies all over the room, when the rim cuts your lip.

If my mind’s a cave, it’s the darkest one you’ll ever see in real life.

The rocks pierce your skin, you’ve been used to the impact for some time.

You carry me to the bed each evening despite my brain growling loud –

And it’s just another night of my anxieties losing more ground.

-JW

Bad Augurs And Worse Tempers

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Photo by Anastasia Shuraeva from Pexels

Scratches on my door, figures by my bed,

White faces in the windowpane.

I know something horrid is approaching.

The stars blink wily as ghouls refrain.

Cuts appear all over my tired body,

They ooze, they burn like wildfire.

But I can’t leave this feeling alone

With its spooks, too dark and dire.

Even paper bruises my skin these days,

I smear the blood all over.

The void behind my forehead widens

Engulfing the room, bursting the controller.

Yet I stay with the rising discomfort,

The curtain is ready for the last show.        

The pure panic in my gaze spirals

As the mirror yells torturously:

“Virago!”

-JW

Why Are All The Clocks Broken?

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Photo by Engin Akyurt from Pexels

The time is dissolving slowly, melting like sugar in lukewarm water,

But the river flowing out of you is spoiled,

It’s saltier than the tears of your father.

The seconds dribble and form symmetrical frost flowers in the meadows –

A handful of daffodils with conspicuous crowns

And a single French rose.

You don’t acknowledge, you’re busy playing with the minutes falling,

They’re drenching you like rain in a hot summer,

You kneel to them as if they’re your calling.

The thirsty always forget to bring more drinking water to the deserts,

They rely on the streams appearing hourly as mirages,

They sweat and bleed through their T-shirts.

So it’s never said out loud that the art of time is rotten to the very core –

The clocks are rigged for the lucky ones,

They run twice as fast for the poor.

With faux unawareness we live on stolen time, on borrowed yesterdays

Which we pile up so overly confident

Until broken clocks set them ablaze.

The time is materializing fast, burning hotter than the Molotov cocktails.

But the fumes coming out of you are gelid,

Colder than a breeze in an icebreaker’s sails.

-JW

The Key To LED Is Blue

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Photo by Andre Moura from Pexels

The mauve satin sky has fallen upon my borough

Giving all faces the anonymity of a John Doe.

We’re all in veils, we’re balancing on the rim.

We all move in vain, it’s muted, dull and dim.

The light we consume can be bought in store

And houses in my street have the same iron door.

Each night it seems there’s a stranger in my bed.

The illusion of normalcy is messing with my head.

I could swear – the sun’s made from diodes too.

Some keep chanting, “the key to LED is blue.”

Although it seems likely what’s inside remains real

They did replace my roses with stainless steel.

So I try to look closely at jasmines and maples –

The edges are fastened with invisible staples.

Translucent wires keep forcing me to smile

While my throat’s burning with curses and bile.

My pillow’s filled with pages of charred books,

There’s only normalcy, normalcy

Wherever I look.

-JW

To Escape The Neon Hourglass

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Photo by Nikolai Ulltang from Pexels

My feet are carrying me ahead – through the dense forest, down the hill.

Trees squeezing together tightly to keep me from moving, to keep me still.

I know the night is almost over but the branches refuse to let in the sun –

As long as they convince me that the darkness endures, I believe I am the only one.

There is a gleam in the distance, it spins like a disco ball, it blurs my vision.

My boots sink into the moss as I trip over the shrubs trying to escape this gimmick.

But there is nowhere to go, only this evergreen vault crushing my ribs.

I am crawling and panting, the thought of stopping seems sweeter than figs.

No, there must be a path that leads to the other side, there must be some hope.

The woods chuckle at my silliness as a breeze pushes me on a downward slope.

My nails are bloody, fingers so raw they burn, knuckles whiter than snow.

The tentacles of another violent forest creature drag me towards the neon glow.

I stab with all my anger, I bite and snarl until it drops me in the grass.

“Keep your head down,” I repeat to myself, managing to ignore the hourglass.

With the force of a hurricane I grab my hunting knife and hurry away,

Through leaves, cones and pine needles my legs fight the desire to stay.

Even through my frantic breathing I hear the black abyss collapsing behind me.

I stumble closer to the real light, it is darting towards me, lukewarm and shiny.

The forests fail to claim my body yet another time, but they will return.

One day I might gather the courage to let all the twigs and roots burn –

But not today. If I only sprint faster,

I can take a step closer to the point of no return.

-JW

Death’s Wearing Her Perfume Tonight

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Photo by Maria Orlova from Pexels

Balsamic scent floats all over the house, all over the garden,

It dances on the tip of our tongues, it begs for pardon.

It whirls like dust, bright lilac, and it stains our teeth.

Who will be the first to stop drinking it?

Who will realize we are stuck in a heath?

The thick odour keeps attacking the senses in gentle gushes.

Sickly sweet particles contaminate the air and everything it touches.

Our faces are paralyzed, our eyes roll back in the skulls.

Who will be the first to breathe out?

Who will call out death’s tricks and lulls?

It appears there’s no other way out of the swelling fog,

The mist bathes us in sorrow, is this the epilogue?

The fragrant symphony threatens to overpower the sky.

Who will be resilient enough to exile it?

Who will defy another night to stay alive?

-JW

Your Death Wasn’t Televised

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Photo by Francesca Zama from Pexels

Delivery notes piling up on your doorstep, Christmas lights still in your window.

Will they ever even notice how your worn-out sofa is missing one beige pillow?

The time passes and much to my chagrin nobody seems to care about your absence.

I drown my mind in self-loathing, waste my money on pricy gins and absinths.

But day after day you fail to make the headlines shake with vulgar excitement –

Was your life truly this lonely, were you left to rot in this world’s confinement?

No, I’m not sorry, at least for you, it’s cruel that I had to stay behind to watch,

To witness how your lifeless body wasn’t recovered from the pumpkin patch.

A week has gone by, only now I see the neighbours snooping in your garden,

Knocking without any luck, growing paranoid, offering the Satan a bargain.

Some detectives show up, some prints are taken, some folks are interviewed.

The bloody hammer cemented in my basement wall won’t let them prosecute.

So I observe from a distance, yet I’m never close enough to connect the dots –

Can you really blame them? You were shy, backdropping those who called the shots.

At least it’s what they repeat – but I knew better, I got to see the very worst.

You called my phone and you banged on my doors for weeks, you had the thirst

But you didn’t have the motive which made you the perfect stranger to me.

You peeped through my windows at night, sang about my mezzanine.

I didn’t know your name, couldn’t tell what you looked like, goddamn bastard.

You thought you’re in charge but I used your garage like a splashboard –

Possibly in that lurid moment your vicious brain realized what it’s done,

And when the hammer landed, your hellfire started blazing like the sun.

But it’s all good if I deserve the eternally unforgiving flames too,

I’m not looking for excuses, pardons or second chances.

As long as you’re the first down there, balancing on razors in the sinners’ zoo,

My blissful heart whirls in mysterious dances.

-JW

A Family Tree

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Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

Keep your foot on the cheating pedal, hit the gas.

Drive faster, let the chills and shock pass.

Give me your torn up hands and please pray

That they don’t find your blood on Joanne’s ashtray.

Miss all the green lights and left-turn signals.

To the right, over the bridge, keep it simple.

They can’t trace our steps unless you confess.

I’ll do the talking, you can deal with the rest.

And I still smell your mother’s perfume on me.

Your father’s favorite song is making the view gory.

The lives that we spilt chase us through the roads.

Drive faster, let the image ahead split into codes.

Ones and zeroes,

We’re never alone.

-JW

Creeper

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Photo by Francesca Zama from Pexels

The light in your window is still on, it’s blinking and fidgeting.

A candle’s lit on your bedroom table next to the piano and your drink.

The branches hug your window so tightly, it’s almost hard to see.

The closer I go, the faster my heart beats; I almost struggle to breathe.

Your friends are gone for the weekend so I’m curious – are you lonely?

Do you have anyone back in the city, was my invitation too phony?

Yet you dance around the place like you own it, the candles cheer you on.

My nose is almost touching the glass, my chest now weighs a ton.

One more careless spin and you waltz straight into the backyard,

I boldly invite myself into the house while you’re getting charred,

Puffing your seventh cigarette of the day, you’ve really changed a lot.

But I’m still as trustee yet not as sweet,

Smart enough now to cut down the flowers who rot.

-JW

Capture

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Photo by Francesca Zama from Pexels

I launch my teeth in your smooth right wrist,

Call it self-defense, but don’t call my thirst selfish.

Salty blood on my lips, they trickle down the neck.

You branded me evil for having some self-respect.

There’s nothing you hate more than disobedience.

You slap my face, I know you enjoy the experience.

The rope tightens around my waist and my ribs.

You slash my confidence like a fig.

I no longer hear the birds sing when I drift away.

The death licks its lips and picks up the tray.

-JW