Tag: anxiety

My Dear Pain

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Extremely sad pictures are painted on my reflective walls today, it’s alluring.

My lungs trembling to the melodies of The Cure, yet – they aren’t really curing.

Every pore becomes an open flesh wound when I’m stuck in this hamster wheel.

“Go rob yourself of all joy and pride, go spread lies, sing off tune and steal.”

My brain is the enemy I knew I’d never win but I always cherished so dearly –

If I go down with its flawed narrations, you’re also going. Can you hear me?!

Do I even mean what I’m yelling when I put up the fight and try to survive this?

Not a day has gone by without me wishing I could take a bullet through my iris.

But that’s not true, you must know I’m not a reliable narrator by this point. Do you?

I’m the sad pictures on my own walls, yet – I’m also the vivid daydreams you knew

Back when we were a little less depressed and I wasn’t smothering my insanities…

So let’s go to war, my dear pain, throw a ceremony of prayer to help your own christianities

With my godless profanities.

-JW

Seven Armies

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Jumping off the high horse with my name carved in its sides,

Wondering about what caused world’s greatest wars and suicides.

My mania is pouring out the chalices, strangling the victors.

Seven armies couldn’t hold it if the rules were any stricter.

Fields yield silently before me as I stab their crooked flesh.

What a pretty picture this is – slay with fear all dressed in mesh.

Not a single soul in sight to test my bravery and titles.

Rebels staying by my side, resting guns on red hot rifles.

Doctors tiptoeing around me with their pills and perfect crimes –

As they throw their words against me, I throw spite in twisted chimes.

Drums of Ante sing in distance but I kneel and grab the dust.

I cut open all my scabs to dip my ego in green lust.

-JW

Flamethrowers And Butterflies

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My hands tied behind my back, eyes covered with two dark patches.

Sounds are slipping by me in circles, lights are dancing in flashes.

Your hand in mine was the last touch I asked for, what I wanted.

When they took the blindfolds off, I took your red cheeks for granted.

Then they shut the sun off once again and chained me to a neon cross,

Took a flamethrower to the first butterflies, burned them with the fresh moss.

Concrete squares as far as I can sense in my blind disbelief, or further.

My feet bleeding from their coffin nails, but this isn’t a murder.

This is my own mind throwing itself in a free fall, chanting “salvation”.

I’m pulling all the magician’s tricks to get back into narration.

The lock is too heavy and my wrists are too loud to play it by ear.

My hands tied behind my back, eyes covered

But I manage to let out a single tear.

-JW

High Towers

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Bullet holes and bullet points scattered on grey brick walls for me to chant.

It’s either one or the other – the options are limited in the land of the grand.

The street corners are cynically empty – and doesn’t this simply prove the point?

“Leaving your walls is a disheartening happening one must always avoid.”

Sorry, that wasn’t me, another writing on bricks is broadcasting my shadows.

Would’ve shot the out of tune frequency in the heart but they took all my ammo.

The longer I search, the greyer these horizons become to my neon-bound imagination.

The more I dig up the clues, the more I’m convinced this heavy blood needs chelation.

High towers look down at me from across the sea when I reach the desired shore.

They pledge to protect me if I fight for a decade but I’m way too soar.

Cliffs let go of my feet as I’m pulled back to the streets washed with fine greed.

The echo chases me down yet misses by second, repeating the words:

“You must lead.”

Only once freed. Only once freed. Only once freed. Only once freed.

-JW

Muted

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And hell turned on its back and froze over to warn me about these betrayals.

The people you choose to trust might not always be those with good final portrayals.

Demons whispered in my ear but what scared me was – they spoke god’s truth.

I turned all seven locks tightly while weeping, then for a month I went mute.

They knocked on the doors to relieve the pressure, they said they’ll forgive.

How is one owed an apology if they cut me for pleasure, not to outlive?

Making sense of the poorly made spider webs made me never step out of my bed.

The quieter I lied there, the more I noticed that my friendships were poorly fed.

And the walls kept the sense of normalcy while everyone spiraled outside of the truth.

I turned all seven locks tightly while weeping,

I begged my senses to stay numb and mute.

-JW

Tampered Heart

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Two-faced wolves in my best friend’s clothing.

I look through my pockets so I could stop choking.

Would a tithing help me make it through this round?

These predators are quiet and their silence makes a sound.

The morning is approaching with its hefty promise –

I run to the west, I rush towards the congress.

Here the sun raises later and betrayal never stings.

The wolves choke on rivals while others plead to kings.

Wire-Eyes zooming in as I fall down on my knees.

He’s been waiting for a chance to politely cease

The suffering this city pours onto tampered hearts,

And I’m his favorite because I never play it smart.

Disheartened I crawl in a corner, sit on the icy floor.

My best friends come rushing through the locked door.

Just two-faced wolves in my best friend’s clothing.

I look through my pockets so I could stop choking.

-JW

Sick Leave

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Killing my every spare moment with buzz and with noise.

Made it thus far without booze spilling on my records of choice.

Ears bleeding from sound attacking my senses like thirsty wolves

But I’ve only made it this far through thoughts that dissolve.

Spreading my hopes on bread without guilt to eat them all up.

My last week’s happy face on the streets was a cover up

And my covers are tinted with deep blue undertones, if you noticed.

When death and I finally waltz, I might even get a bonus.

They call my eyes playful but painfully so, if that’s a hint.

The chaos behind those greyish stones could use a lighter tint.

A true artist never unveils tricks or techniques but I oppose –

When graveyard goes for the flash button, I strike a pose.

With each coming second the buzz will become a craftier thieve.

You’ll ignore these lines while I apply for another sick leave.

-JW

Francis Scott

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And to people who fell for the illusion of me doing well which I created –

I believed it too, but my mind stood in the cold and stayed berated.

Put one finger into the dark molasses, hit one more nail into the coffin.

Built a crematory of burnt bridges and needles dropping.

Yet – my gullible soul waited for the pain to soften.

I believe that everyone deserves a re-do but I wanted to have two

And maybe that’s too much to ask from my younger self, she’s still missing clues.

Once they reveal what’s hidden, she’ll learn not to overpay her dues.

In the distance I yet again see a sign blinking “What’s the use?!”

When I turn the other cheek, they steal my insecurities to turn me into a muse.

I know how to cause a fight but I’m yet to learn how to make it easy for me.

They once called me Francis Scott – all focused on the glitz, not on the story.

And I’ll keep covering my tortured being with saying “sorry”

When I don’t owe a single apology to people who came before me.

So fall for the mirage, don’t hesitate to bathe in pain’s glory.

-JW

Almost Freezing

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Killing my mind every evening, holding it back from the green light.

The current hits it with pleading but I won’t budge or put up a fight.

My fists are by my side if I ever need a savior for my tongue’s messes.

While everyone’s running in circles, the generals are launching stresses.

It’s too risky to reach my arm out for that green flame in these times.

But what if I don’t and it’s over, there’s no substance in between these lines?

Ah! The sweat dripping down my back are almost freezing as I plan the escape.

Three years later I’ll either be dead or in a desperate need of the brakes.

Give me a break. Put a pause on this and rewind in a more peaceful decade.

Decadence is slipping through their fists but the damages are prepaid.

So I keep on slaughtering my brain at every crooked turn, at every twist.

To cut these demons out of my dysmorphic body I might need an oculist.

-JW

Tightly Sealed Freedom

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The three musketeers of the end of all things are coming to our town.

The fake sun is trembling and neon is shining through a worn-out frown.

Apathetic noon showers my neck with kisses it doesn’t really mean

And I can’t remember how I lost my lustful self and turned into a fiend.

The target on my back is turning redder each day, getting lighter by minute.

Once it gets as big as the Ritz, you’ll see how Fitzgerald is going to spin it.

I embrace the last days of this tightly sealed freedom with the force of a madman.

Not packing much for the departure as you can never be ready for badlands.

Scoria and erosion reaching for my pound of flesh, is resisting even an option?

I’m dreaming about running but doom might be the answer for this corruption.

“No, don’t listen,” I hear someone whimpering right beneath my bleeding helix.

The three musketeers are approaching in distance and I sigh.

“Let’s give this place another shot but not lend it any credence.”

-JW