Learning

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I’ve known you since the dawn of time, I’ve known you since beginning.

The layers I take off of you leave my heart open, grinning.

But then you build another one so I keep pulling, spinning.

I’ve known you since the dawn of time, I’ve known you since beginning.

Your eyes are harsh when I am sweet, they’re harsher when I’m happy

But I’d do anything for you, burn bridges and scratch taxis.

The harder your faint shell becomes, the more I call you bratty.

Your eyes are harsh when I am sweet, they’re harsher when I’m happy.

-JW

The Hunt Begins

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Flying down a flight of stairs towards an icy concrete floor.

The author of this storyline feeds on my screams, she wants to hear more.

I break through chalices and chandeliers, the sharp corners leave a mark.

“Honey, watch out for the twists, you might get bitten and it might get dark.”

I’m getting thrown through an open window, tearing up blue curtains.

The pen on the paper trembles. She’s willing to wing it but is she certain?

A dark figure approaches the horizon, handsome and charmingly mean.

“Be still, my heart, be still,” I whisper.

He’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.

-JW

Downwards

Rolling down a stainless steel mountain made of doubt.

Connection’s kicking in, I’m changing wheels and routes.

Wavy hair falling in my distorted vision, hiding the focus.

Black satin dresses tangled around my ankles.

Each step I take is a bonus.

I might get killed or even buried alive by the author –

These fictional scenes are written to keep me bothered

But my senses keep getting butchered and gutted in the making.

The engine keeps pulsating while I try to escape,

Thoughts and heart racing.

Sunrise is kicking in over the frozen fields like a curse.

If I don’t make it, I hope they ordered a red-coloured hearse.

The faster I go, the more miserable these glass shoes make me feel.

Dragging against the ice and the petrified grass,

Rolling down a mountain of stainless steel.

-JW

Seven / Intruder

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I must have the seven arcs in a story,

Must have a seven step program to glory.

There are seven pages and seven scripts,

Seven ways to pull the same old trick.

Seventeen stooges with velvet guns,

Burning barrels of Seagrams 7 for fun.

The seventh son was the last to survive –

His mother was twenty seven

When she fell on a knife.

Seven hundred soldiers dying in heat.

Vultures watching hungered by the defeat.

Crashing into a wall with a grey 7-seater.

A seven part plan to kill and elect

The new world leader.

-JW