Tag: getting better

The Pastor’s Call

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Sleeping on the floor again to be closer to an ice cold surface.

Vultures approaching me slowly, flying around in circles.

The pastor called to get tomorrow’s casket in my dimensions.

My name’s getting lost on tongues, no one really mentions

How I ran faster than waves towards a steep shore to make it –

The rest of the world swam in sun while my face was moonlit,

And no one asked whether being on top felt better than drowning.

While the world slept, I cursed out the moon like wolves howling.

Smoking out the window at 3AM, half-tired and half-ready-to-go.

Using good thoughts and prayers sent my way as something to throw.

Nothing helps the anger of someone knowingly left for the dead.

Sleeping on my floor again, wishing the cold could wash out the dread.

-JW

Old Emblems of Fear

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Looking for catharsis in the simplest moments –

When I begged a passer-by, he quoted the Romans.

Preaching release of repression through limbos and tears

Running by churches, bowing to old emblems of fear.

I might find it, I might even find it soon,

Before the last droplets of mist start their bloom.

But the peak is scarier up-close and I can’t compare

This mountain top to another plain moment we share.

The last battle of release is approaching, I can sense

As my limbs no longer hear their own commands.

The meadow connecting Earth with the sky is missing.

Let’s run for the summit right now,

Even if the divine is hissing.

-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

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

Stolen Mirrors

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White bedroom walls, all matte,

not a reflection in sight.

She was willing to die for that,

not for being right.

Sun turned up to the brightest,

not some neon light.

The words in her head – not biased,

not always ready to bite.

No mirrors testing her worth,

not a noise in the realm.

Her body wasn’t the hearth

and she took over the helm.

“Rest, dear, you’ve been hurt,”

She whispered, still overwhelmed.

“Years spent in standards so absurd,

Might as well live with just walls

And skip replacing the doorbell,

Even if you’re compelled.”

She has taken over the helm.

-JW

Mace

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A foot in the door, I can’t keep the clashing spirits out.

The triad snarling at me, spitting droplets of bloody doubt.

Silver mannequins surrounding the building in heated crowds.

The glass moves in ultra-waves from the sound of their mouths.

Why don’t they listen, I’m not trying to leave this place!

I can’t control my fear hence I spiral like a mace.

But there’s always a thousand fists beating me back to the start –

Wherever I hide, they’re aiming and shooting a dart.

The doorknob is sinking my chest down to the holy ground.

Two feet in the door. There goes my shot at being unowned.

-JW

Another Disaster in Time

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I’ve been thinking a lot about loyalty lately and coming to terms with the fact

That the one bullet I cannot escape is being true to myself.

No, I’m not an act.

Many say I lack vision, others claim I come off as abrasive, lacking basic tact,

But who really hears their whispers when life and I, we signed this secret pact.

It was a summer day and my chest was burning – it was bursting lies, spitting pain:

I’m lying on the floor, counting voices, waiting for someone else to take the blame.

My hand reaches for the last sip of poisoned wine.

Someone pulls the emergency brakes on the train.

I sit up, wide-eyed in disbelief and I swear – someone muttered my name.

Knowing everything I’ve learned now I’d say it was my consciousness calling me home.

Yet – that feeling wasn’t present, it felt like my future has dialed the crisis phone.

It struck me that as long as I got myself in this fidgety world, I’m not completely unknown.

So I’ve been thinking a lot about loyalty lately and how without it you’re utterly alone.

An unmarked graveyard representing another disaster in time,

And, not to sound cynical, nothing’s blanker than a penniless crime.

So I’m pulling it all together, drawing a full circle – not betting a dime.

I must win the loyalty back. Be it a silent prayer or a pantomime.

-JW

Writer’s Battle Cry

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I cannot fall asleep before I’ve created another one of these part-time sentence sketches.

The grey clouds are forming a cradle but I refuse to enter. Too far from static and background retches.

Some acidic light spills on my spine, it makes me live through it all again, pulsating,

But it barely rings a bell anymore. I tied a rock to this wraith and sunk it by tirelessly creating.

I cannot sleep before I know that I’ve saved another day by being drained, not going down the drain,

And if you asked five years ago, I would’ve declared this sanctuary insane,

Maybe changed my name to Jane.

So here I stand, alone in the dust bowl of traumas that made me, of black bat licorice spat in my direction,

Cascading through shallow storms, calming my insomniac mind with bad rhymes, trusting your discretion.

-JW

Exitlude

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But she fights back,

Flipping off the pearl Cadillacs,

Spitting up cigarette ash.

And the clothes won’t fit like they do on rack,

And no one cares in the city of trash.

She was broken long ago,

You can barely hear the crack.

Let her go.

With or without you paying attention

She will win herself back.

-JW