Tag: daily writing

Weightless

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Photo by Daria Sannikova from Pexels

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

Not A Negotiation

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Photo by Dom J from Pexels

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

Stepping Out

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Photo by KoolShooters from Pexels

The cheeks blush with crimson rage

As I step out of this rusty cage

To face the music, the false prodigies,

But nobody’s there awaiting me.

The time stands still, it’s almost poetic –

They kept my life highly hectic

As a sorry attempt to confuse me,

To make me less of a human.

They restrained me through battles

So I return to inspect the shackles.

All I see are some black dahlias,

All the betrayals become obvious.

Bars and wires melt at my sight

Deflating this cage left out of light.

My knuckles shake in fatigue

Yet – I close the doors

With a sigh of relief.

-JW

Red

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Photo by Min An from Pexels

The Red is piercing my skin and pushing furious tentacles out of my neck.

With every heartbeat the scene turns brighter, I’m caught in a self-made wreck.

The green contact lenses I’m wearing can’t hide the pressure raising within,

I know my eyes glow in sultry carmine, I know I’ve lost my linchpin.

The nails click on surfaces, they dig into walls, they pull out my own hair.

The Red comes in waves and it leaves me crying for a chance to fight fair.

But they own my guts and let me sleep in them, too, just for another payday –

So I snap at myself for reasons unknown, convinced that I’m their prey.

The Red punishes me, it holds my nerve ends under deadly avalanches.

Fixing the damage feels like welding together burned and broken branches.

And soon enough every part of my torso is covered in a crown of flames

So I let the yet untamed Red out to play with its creators,

The instigators of my deep shame.

-JW

My Bastille

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Photo by Lisa Fotios from Pexels

I try hard to hold my past still

But it’s leaking putrid pastels.

Is there a point to hold on

To this forgotten echelon?

My legs keep being restless,

I can even taste the stress.

Is it my wishful thinking

Or can I sleep while blinking?

Or maybe we just pretend

That burning out is not a trend?

I try to tie the blasts in twill,

They try to forge my last will.

And I wonder – how come

I must always please the scum?

They never have to fix the stencil

If we agree to stand still.

But my feet keep running cold

While they trade our heat for gold.

So I spit out the foul pastil

And let my ego storm the Bastille.

-JW

Blood On His Collar

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Photo by Lisa Fotios from Pexels

You wear him around your neck like an ancient amulet,

Such a pretty Judas dressed in the costume of a Capulet.

Your left eye twitches when he mentions the name of another

So you shed one more snake skin and make him your lover.

You tighten the chains, you ensure he’s always close,

And you do the laundry only to smell all his clothes –

Just to obsess over a jacket with a hint of my perfume

So you can christen it with fire while your ego fumes.

You crack the emergency glass a bit more each time,

Smearing blood on his collar, thinking it’s a lipstick of mine.

I’m patient – but the moment your grip becomes a noose,

The sensation of your heartbeats fading will erase our truce.

-JW

Between The Pileus Clouds Of Her Hometown

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Her auburn hair falls into my eyes, gets tangled up with my lashes –

But only in my sleep, only when I patch up the crimson slashes.

Her curls lay on the pillows and flow on the perfectly white duvet,

A memory I can barely remember, a memory drawn in clay.

The iridescent pileus clouds swim peacefully over her hometown –

I try my best to recall that this place was never our common ground.

We tried to make houses out of cardboard boxes and compulsive lies.

The walls didn’t stand the test of time, they collapsed after our highs.

My pillows have sharp teeth nowadays, they bite me with pure rage –

Yet I still wish on a falling star, beg for the love of my dying mage.

But she doesn’t hear my cries, no, she’s chosen to look away –

My feeble ego convulses, collecting the blowback in an ashtray.

There’s a blizzard outside and an ice storm rising in my very own chest –

Her sweet warmth feels too adjacent… I mustn’t surrender or ever rest.

Maybe the hunger will implode one day, maybe it will survive,

And we’ll keep reaching for one another to prove we’re barely alive.

-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