Tag: A Few Too Many Fantasy Tales

Waterproof

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You should never speak to me again or even look at this direction.

The floor is made of paper cut-outs of your short aggressions.

I’m dirty, I haven’t been baptized since you entered the room.

Ceiling hanging over my neck as a guillotine but you’re yet to learn –

Under pressure I bloom.

All that’s been taken by you during decades, please, take even more.

My back is strong enough to never look back, doesn’t mean it’s not soar.

The next time we go toe to toe, don’t beg me to stay like you always do.

You should never speak of me again or ever assume for one second

My soul isn’t waterproof.

-JW

Clockwise

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Living on the edge of an astronomical clock turning backwards.

The time isn’t real, nor is the space – we’re simply bad actors.

Leaping through the worst past and present can offer, spinning

Back into my oblivion patched with torn memories, singing,

Re-enacting old scenes while the hour hand’s draining me to the bone.

Might feel obscene to these petty people living in their heads

All alone.

But I go up the minute hand, I chase the escape wheel and fall –

Hanging in the flow of the time by a blue thread, dirty and small.

Jumping after each palm reached out to me but I’m somehow missing.

My spine is rubbing into another manipulated reason to stop hissing

And get back to giving all my warm blankets to those who bow

So low to see the last inch of hope leaving the body I liked years back

But now barely know.

I cling to the second hand, almost being ripped in two by the heat.

The change of algorithm is washing my brain of sins and of greed.

Running up the hill of no escape, right up to the promised rope –

You might think I’ll make a noose but by know you must know

I’m not a trope

And I’d rather tie the ends together to keep my own brain intact

Than give you another graveyard fairy-tale of a ghoul eating the hero of my favorite tale

In the second act.

-JW

Honey Honey

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Honey, the kids aren’t doing alright this time around –

Our screaming from dusk till dawn is not like the movies have shown

And The Death Watch is making its rounds.

But honey, it’s not that gruesome, we didn’t hit hard –

The big sister got what’s coming, the little sister learned how to sprint

And how to keep up the guard.

And Hun, it’s not unusual, violence is what keeps us together –

A vulture and its prey… Which one of them is the killer? Do we even care

If they’re birds of a feather?

Honey, the little one seems traumatized, should we be quiet –

Or should she learn the rules to being her mother’s daughter already

Before starting a riot?

Oh, Hun, she’s not taking the yelling and fists too well –

Are we not normalizing the scenery enough with the props and all?

Will she hate us if she dwells?

***

“Honey, Honey, the kids aren’t doing alright still, I’m sorry to break it.

One of you under the ground, the other continuing the legacy of trauma –

It is not my place to strangle your stamina or shake it

But you could have picked a better melodrama

Than the lives you ruined by trying to make it.”

-JW

The Closure

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Crawling through all these pitiful messes to the finish line

Peeking from the hills, for the thousandth time promising

It will be mine.

It’s been years swimming in self-hate so I learned quickly

That progress is not a linear uphill drive and all achievements

Might go swiftly.

Once in a while it’s too much, and my back aches from falling,

I’m hoping I can lay there forever without ever trying to climb

But the brain is brawling.

Seven stones in my backpack trying to push me off the balance,

Rubbing against each other in symphonies of pure elegance

With pricey valance.

Whenever I’m three metres away, I lose my self-composure.

The hills are now peeking at me. The mountain disappears. Again.

“No closure this time. No closure.”

-JW

Sicker = “Healthier”

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“No one ever imagined. No one ever knew.

Nobody could tell because you weren’t that blue.”

The more you faded, the more it was praised

And everyone saw your illness but believed –

Your standards were raised.

So you became “healthier” when you got sicker.

“The pulsating veins and blood shot eyes will pass

But you will forever look like a sticker.”

A prize. A gift. The golden medal for someone else

Who never notices how pain rots on the shelves

But sex sells.

You never relied on those ideals, but they lived within you.

Too deep rooted to untangle from your truth

So no one ever knew

How the broken version of you was all fiction,

How you begged for mercy to nights

As they created the most friction

To a troublesome concept of worth in a young mind.

Why be kind? Why resist and leave it all behind?

Truth be told –

Almost no one that pushed this onto me so sincerely

Truly made it out, never saw it clearly.

But you don’t owe a single second of illness

To people who believe your existence is a grimness,

And to those still imposing standards on others I can only tell:

Save your self-hate speeches masked as advise for yourself.

Choke as long as needed. I’ve been doing it since I was twelve.

-JW

Purposeful Violence

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My friends heard you know how frisky I get when I stand by a man like you.

There you are, punching holes in my paper walls after learning that we’re through.

No call backs though, no carton airplanes flying off this cliff I’ve put you on.

Six long months of miseries and resolving your twisted mind – do you even know

How much it hurts? I bet you don’t.

Never have I admitted to liking this game you’re lobbying but I read the rules –

A punch to the gut is a sign of love, a stab in the back is love times two.

Some days I wonder how I got that far, tearing myself up for a taste of passion –

The closest feeling to being cut in pieces with a hot knife and distributed

To everyone I hate in rations.

“Never trust a perfect person,” they say, but then ask you to stop being picky.

Apparently romance is only great if the ice is thin and each step is tricky.

Let’s be truthful – it’s all about how it seems, not how it feels, haven’t you noticed?

The worse your mental state gets with each fight, the more they cheer your passion

And give violence a purpose.

-JW

Kittens

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Someone pointed it out passing by and I cannot shake the disgust

Of what the men following my scared scent were dying to discuss.

Oh, is the skirt too short and buttons too loose for your expensive taste?

“Such a pretty face, too bad all that make up and attitude makes it a waste.”

It’s not the first time this week I’m hearing this centuries old, morbid story,

And I’m not in my teens so I should take it easy and perhaps, just maybe, be sorry?

What a compliment though, their eyes and cars keep following wherever you go

Hence it shouldn’t be a problem, and even if it was – how would you know?

“You’re a lady after all, stop acting like you don’t enjoy being approached

With a bit of flirt, even if it’s scaring you – don’t yell, don’t bring the reproach.”

Keep your mind open if it’s disturbing, some kittens will be drowned in the making

But you can only change culture of power plays and toxic overtaking

If you don’t confuse it with innocent romance-baiting.

Berate all you want, but it’s still your beasts who deserve crating.

-JW

Fake Funny

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All they do is talk about fake happiness and how it kills the heart.

Are we still uncomfortable to hear that “fake funny” is the superior art?

The joke you let slide about your friend or a rude remark masked as “preference”…

And genuinely – all the funny remarks you make to avoid someone

Pointing out a painful existence.

Sometimes a laughing matter can be turned into a glass container

Hence you keep bottling up your emotions for the sake of a traitor –

Yet your brain will turn to mush to make it all sound like a choking hazard.

So many ears and eyes open to change of pace – but their truths

Remain stiff and plastered.

Another sarcastic comment underneath a discussion about double standards

Or how we’re going backwards too often.

But it’s not facts, it’s just the lack of manners.

The funnier the joke about these crowds, the pain, yourself, your own suffering,

The less you have to worry that anyone will start bothering

With questions that will cause stuttering.

Therefore, you hold onto the laughing matter instead of facing your lesions,

And people will judge you for the consequences, not for the reasons

Because you were the regent,

Not the victim, as per they trends from last seasons.

-JW

A Short History Of Another Working Class Disaster

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I spent the day under covers trying to uncover my own truths about healing

Because I’d spent a decade believing I’d rather be acceptable than breathing

Through my own lungs, with two pink cheeks, with soft skin and mind.

But I couldn’t bear that cost so I erased myself gram by gram,

Until they went blind.

I used to believe I’d rather cut out my own eyeballs than notice an imperfection.

Years wasted thinking that how I look was the reason I got most rejections,

Not because my carcass was barely holding the pale surface together as a trophy,

But don’t call the cops on my stolen years and feel free not to cry

A soft-spoken “sorry”.

I found happiness in truth but I never looked for truth in happiness, I couldn’t.

The pain left in me was a fireproof glass but the joy was short-lived and wooden,

And the streets weren’t welcoming because nothing’s a compliment to a deflector –

Not the classic kind, just another working class disaster repeating itself

Like a broken vector.

-JW

Black Hair Dye And Hospital Rooms

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Six stitches on my left thigh from the bruising your spite caused.

I bang my neck against the walls but they’re quiet, holding the applause.

No one notices my pleas for painkillers or your black hair dye fumes.

Trapped in a hospital room built out of hunger and imagined dooms.

“You’re not right,” I hear someone think through the yellow brick doors.

I squint but don’t lift my lids off the ground.

Must’ve been the corpse of my imagined flaws.

Six stitches on my scalp from the damage your faulty perception caused.

I claw out my hair but you ask to keep digging my nails with dirty paws –

No one sees as I fade away, begging for a way out, other than the window.

They dye my hair fiery red. I hear someone from the backstage cheer “bingo”.

-JW