Tag: Candy’s diaries

Saved?

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Slender figures rushing the foggy streets in agony,

Struggling to pay for the rent of their own minds,

An irony, a travesty.

I run with them past armed guards and loopy culverts.

The dogs are onto us the second we hit the road.

They want to make us the culprits.

We see purple cloaks rolling down the streets like carpets,

Altering the sights of the city, choking out those

That grew defiant.

Rays of sun playing on sharpened edges of machetes.

The weak are taken back to their rooms with menace,

Others become enlistees.

The fog is entering my flaring nostrils, it’s spreading.

My legs become numb to the pain of their teeth.

I fall on the floor, staining the bedding.

-JW

Amusements

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They ensure that we’re kept alone during the nights

Because during the nights time stands still.

It never, ever flies.

It’s a simulator ride through the paths of our brain

That should’ve been kept under supervision,

Locked in the chains.

They ensure we can hear each other screaming at night

Because at night the sound travels faster

And it dims the light.

It’s a haunted attraction we paid for with our last morals

But we never agreed to participate

So why are they giving us back our dollars?

-JW

The Silver Age

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A new foggy moon rises above the city, it burns like acid

And it runs on pain we’re swallowing to keep ourselves gaslit.

There aren’t any blushing faces, only grey wooden sculptures

Carved out of those of us who forgot when to unfollow the culture.

Enchanted silver surfaces set out as traps –

We do know better but we still give in,

We burn the books and the maps.

A new Gravitron sun spins around us making the city dizzy

And it runs on the acid we’re spitting up to pretend we’re busy.

No eyes looking up in the streets, just crowds blending together,

Dragging their feet towards the buzz of heads being severed.

Enchanted silver surfaces set out as traps –

We do know better but we still give in,

We burn the books and the maps.

-JW

Reunited

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There are abandoned factory buildings as far as I can see,

There are leaves red as blood on a knife after a killing spree.

There are winds as cold as sin, but warmer than my hands

And there are shackles on my ankles, imported from France.

The city I’ve long forgotten stands before me so tall.

The city that branded me rotten, the place that shrunk me small.

Each wall explodes dust and it colours my skin oddly grey.

Each wall in this city views its visitors as an overdue prey.

I’m shoved into my room, put under a neon microscope lens.

The gates, doors and bridges are shut behind me

And I’m back in Ante.

No memories, no joy and no friends.

-JW

Apathy 101

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I bid my soul to the devil to relieve me of the pressure

And I begged the gods to take me.

They said they don’t deal with the fractured.

I don’t want to be unthankful, I just don’t think I’m alright

Because whenever the sun sets again

I’m crying for the dying night.

I waltz around rooms to walk out the sinister notions.

Churches crumble before my eyes,

I’m stale, envying those in motion.

And the silver lights of the forgotten city call for me…

I’m too weak to hold back the tears.

To everyone I knew – sorry for the apathy.

-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

A Beautiful Day To Die

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The sun is playing on bare skinned people passing by, not reaching me yet.

I’ve become a mirror to the world’s worst battle cries, the symbol of debt.

Would be a lie if I claimed I’d rather touch the rays instead of reflecting –

It’s a beautiful day to die from overdosing on medals I’ve been collecting.

Never thought of myself as a warrior, cleaning up foreign messes, not my own,

Making sure as a foreigner I hide my own truths and give my illness a loan

To take out later, when I’m crumbling in the concrete walls of another city

Where windows are larger than life and privacy means you must be guilty.

All these second-hand “thank you” notes I’ve gathered now don’t mean a thing –

Loneliness carries itself just royally well until it finds a place to sting.

Then you’re down with the venom tearing your vision apart, installing mirrors.

You feel like it’s a beautiful day to die if you get to see the world any clearer.

But that was then – I continue to walk the streets with my growing reflective hopes.

I’ve become the mirror to the world’s battle cries but I’m no longer a ghost.

***

I shut the neon gates to my city.

The rebels are gone with the winds of fog colored in pity.

The small picture’s gone, replaced with only this memory

Of how I treated the streets I created as an enemy

I know I can’t reach my younger self but I’ll try through this revery:

Love, I hope you remember me.

-JW

New Chapter

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Blood on my trembling fingers from yesterday’s out of control rendezvous.

I don’t think I’m ready to ask questions with answers dipped in your blues.

It’s true, wanting everything from my past to be torn apart isn’t a solution

But I’ve waited too long for a happy ending, not another mediocre conclusion.

“I love you so much it pains me,” I say, looking at a gold framed mirror.

Bought this one myself in a vintage shop made for people-shaped errors.

Painted my walls white and took the hoarded neon to another graveyard –

I spilled my paint going there, then accidentally became the vanguard

Of some new, braver movement… Sorry, I can’t really recall their name.

They told me tales about the fame monster but I won’t listen to reason

When it comes to my shame.

So there’s still blood on my hands and I should admit – it’s probably mine.

Cutting your heart open becomes a hobby if you start practising when you’re nine.

Bleeding yourself dry daily for other’s mistakes feels OK, you’ve gotten better.

But I’m still unable to remember a time where I looked at myself

And didn’t feel dry or bitter.

May this mirror I’ve bought myself serve as a reminder of how I’m here, breathing,

And if I happen to bleed for my own life again, that’s because I’m leaning on myself,

The one person honest enough to drop her habit of being deceiving,

Instead of running for the hills, walking the walk through the delayed grieving.

May this mirror be the first thing to remind myself I am not perfect at it,

But I am healing.

-JW

A Dystopian Novel

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There are these full circle moments when the drums stop ringing in your ears,

The sound paralyzing your every move turns into a river washing out your fears.

But you can’t stand up, can’t raise a hand to greet the overwhelming sun

And the mountains seem golden, yet you’re careful about letting go of the gun.

There are moments where you reflect on deflecting your whole past and present,

The bass is penetrating your heart muscles because trauma isn’t pleasant.

Skull pulsating harder than a carnival stage filled with betrayed manic rebels.

Anxiety-driven you rush through the memories, climb brave through the levels.

There are moments where killing your mind with noise becomes a simple mischief,

But you pull that trick way too often so it grows into a cult, you bury it like a christian.

You might need a decade to ditch the part where attacking your senses feels fine.

The longer you ignore that pain, the more likely you’ll turn it into a dystopian novel

with rhymes,

like mine.

-JW

When I Was Younger

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And I look at my layered cotton candy sky every evening

Blaming my father for distorted love that keeps bleeding.

I’m doing alright, more than I was promised where I grew up

In the town where no one’s allowed to stand up

For themselves or for anything somewhat decent…

I can’t shake the spite because it feels so recent,

Because their cotton candy sky’s inherited and not really earned.

Where I come from, each cry for love remains spurned.

The hate is a currency there – but so is the hidden insecurities.

Dirty beings blowing mud on the clouds, judging all purities.

And I look at my pink sky because I clawed my way up here,

Away… but the town behind refuses to fade out and disappear.

I know that my head on a stick will not suffice their hunger.

Wish I had known when I was still hopeful, when I was younger.

-JW