Tag: mental health poetry

Counting Down

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Photo by Mathias P.R. Reding from Pexels

Once the droplets settle on the glass we both know it’s over,

But we still count down the minutes in case this’ll pass

As we grow older.

I draw circles in the humid air, slowly and somewhat patiently.

The leaves keep getting stuck in my frizzy weekend hair,

And then you say to me:

“Maybe something somewhere is better than this crushing feeling.

We’re both so young, yet looking the worse for wear,

We’re wilfully bleeding.”

But I take your words with a grain of salt and an ounce of solace.

It’s difficult to leave when parting ways is no one’s fault –

Yet, this love is lawless.

Once the droplets settle on the grass we both know it’s time,

But we still count down the seconds in case it’ll pass

With the freezing clime.

-JW

The Haunting

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Photo by Plato Terentev from Pexels

Trams pass through me at midnight, they’re all empty and sound,

And I stand on the rails pushing away spiky, grey clouds.

The silence disarms me but the darkness melts like warm butter,

My feet weaken by the second as shame angrily splutters.

The asphalt is the path of the forgotten – yet, my legs get weaker.

It’s a shame, really, I’ve only been running for one weekend,

But my high-flying morals have turned into a deadly splinter

That will kill off all my innocence by the next winter.

The red in my cheeks is crawling up to the whites of my eyes.

Perhaps I rushed when accepting this Trojan horse of a prize –

Even the road less travelled can turn into the bleakest routine

If you’re already a ghostly mist masked as a fine-tuned machine.

But escaping the truth can only get one so far, and I knew it.

I raised the seven headed dragon, then waltzed right through it –

Until it burned me to a crisp while I pretended to be its king…

Now I walk the streets as a wisp of charcoal smoke

With two scarlet scars replacing my rosy wings.

-JW

Note #914

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Trees by my window turn chartreuse, they have lungs to feed and souls to sting.

The birds return home with the highest of winds, bringing the first breath of spring.

My eyes feel like an anchor in this scene, they’re ruining the view with bright red fear.

The blood I shed for vile creatures keeps visiting at night, threatening to disappear.

And I worry – maybe I got out too late to ever pull myself back together again?

Maybe I truly played my last card, ceiled the faith, and lost myself as a friend?

The pound of flesh I offered them for free wasn’t an invitation to rob my skull empty –

But I thought once I left, we would be even, yet, I’m broken and they still have plenty.

So where is the fairness my ego promised? Where are the roaring melodies?

The life spins faster and faster around me but I no longer feel like its centrepiece.

And the trees get greener, the city gets louder, the sunlight numbs me to the bone.     

I pray each night to the gods I dethroned

That I still have the spite to never answer the phone.

-JW

The Searchlights

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Photo by Ryutaro Tsukata from Pexels

The voices get angrier when the big searchlight in the sky goes out.

They try to take me through the paths that gaslight and sow doubt.

I chase the intrusive thoughts away by turning into a bright red blot,

And it is not necessarily a goal of mine but I am shooting my shot.

I crawl on my knees through the darkened streets without any shame.

The sounds echo in my brain without finding a corner to tame.

But the stars above me look like silver clots in a dark despair sea,

The humming of its silky splashes tail my mind in a minor key –

Until there is nothing else, just another rigid body in the water.

Someone will pull me out with a fishing line, call me their daughter.

The cycle repeats, the runaway in me starts loving the searchlights.

Too often the happiest endings never happen

Because of the darkest nights.

-JW

Spliced

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Photo by Anna Kester from Pexels

Do you even remember when I caged up your cast iron heart like a bird of prey,

Breaking each promise I made to myself in the most exhilarating way?

And I buried that cage away, under unidentifiable skulls and pale blue plastic,

I dug it so deep that your clear voice turned into some rusty static.

The lucid sunsets I used to watch from my bed turned uninviting and dull.

All the air around me shrunk in size until the atmosphere was a screaming null.

I placed my palms on the marks in my skin you left without thinking twice…

So I hope you remember this time because I’m setting ablaze our splice.

-JW

The Lock

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Photo by Yazan Khalifeh from Pexels

These walls echo my downfalls but stay deadly silent about the glistening highs.

One could argue I built them for myself, god, don’t re-examine my alibis.

Each morning the dread keeps forgetting itself – and maybe there’s even a chance

For me to escape what I’ve created, lose the lead sprinklers I got for hands.

But I can’t get past the chain link fences, like a spell they push me back inside.

The hellhounds I welcomed in this home know all the escape plans I lazily hide.

The floor spins on its axis, it melts away until there’s nothing for me to land on.

There’s wind on my skin but I can’t see the door, it’s covered by a phantom.

I keep hearing them say – you have to break these abysmal loops on your own,

And, god, I know I’ve built them myself, but would it kill you to pick up the phone?

Even if it’s a beast of my own creation, do I have to break out of its head alone?

Because I swear there’s one unknown lock on my gate,

Cast in envy green stone.

-JW

Your Left Lung

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You questioned whether the city isn’t overwhelming me these days,

I hid little anxieties in the rasp of my voice when whispering the “nays”.

Maybe just by an accident or a loop in the system you truly believed

That on Sunday nights I’m not punching the stewing hot air in my sleep.

You saw me crumble behind the walls, you crumpled up my courage,

And the city was to blame for all my fear lacking proper storage.

The others stared in disbelief and their fury made my nostrils flared,

Somehow I carried my worries home as my silly pride got bared.

And you condemned my choices but still talked about every single one.

This blame game is the worst side-effect of living behind the gun.

My trigger finger shakes when you run marathons with your tongue

But I’ve never wasted a bullet – so you can rumour away your left lung.

-JW

The Snake Pit

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Muted spring mist wraps around my ankles like poisonous snakes.

I’m bathing in vivid daydreams

But it hisses me wide awake.

I trip on my faint honesty, landing straight on the jagged edges

Of all that I couldn’t leave behind

In hotel rooms and on filthy ledges.

My temper drags me down to the bottom but who can blame it?

If you stain the first November snow,

You might as well paint it.

And you might as well drop the acts you’ve been lugging around.

Get rid of the sentiment,

Leave it at the lost and found.

So I stumble towards the sunlight, getting lighter, floating with my sins.

Some keep pointing out the exits,

No, I can’t take the hints.

I know it’s a race against the clock and I’m here running on empty.

But the snakes can only bite if I whisper:

“Please, help me.”

Therefore I seal my lips and move along stealthy.

-JW

The Visitor

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When the attic door creeks, it’s a bit too late to leave.

Tell the crimson in your cheeks to fade out once you bleed.

When the curtains slightly rattle, only then choose your battle.

Enter the last raffle before you drop the selfish prattle.

Sneak behind the dusty closet, just ensure that you close it,

And keep the fear in your pocket, it will be your last deposit.

Grasp the rug with your nails if all these other tricks fail.

Lower your white sails while the others chase their tails.

Never make a confession while looped in a deadly obsession.

You must only use the Hessian if you want to hear the question.

And when the back door creeks, collapse on your own feet.

Tell the nerves in your beak, “We’ve made it another week”.

-JW

Burning From Both Ends

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Photo by Henry & Co. from Pexels

Time only stops for those who outrun it, no wonder this city doesn’t age.

These days are all the yesterdays, and tomorrow’s locked in a silver cage.

We rush down the boulevards, around the parks and through tall buildings,

The concrete in our lungs feels sweeter than betrayals or deserved killings.

But the air keeps changing its flow through the spaces we once worshiped.

All the unsteady boats in our neon ports look more like grey warships.

And the catacombs of our minds leak like candles burning from both ends.

The towers bend and the walls are closing in on those who swore to defend.

“If you have the courage, then I also have the courage to run even faster,”

We try to calm ourselves with these phrases to please the blue masters.

Yet – time only chases those who outrun it, no wonder we carry this rage.

All our yesterdays melt into blurry mist and the time is knocking again,

Asking to turn the next page.

-JW