Tag: mental illness

Rebel City

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Most days I don’t have anything to contribute to the conversation.

Sitting and listening to the dialogues or tributes, waiting for my station.

Just as yesterday, this day reaches its finale but I struggle to sleep.

The conversations repeat while engraving the words way too deep.

I’ve spoken up a few times but it hasn’t been what I was promised.

The mic was carried away by somebody they call Thomas.

My nerve ends disconnect from shame I felt in that very moment.

These streets worked hard to teach me that doubt is a bad omen.

The city is well-planned and thought out with its harsh borders,

A labyrinth you’re not escaping without queen’s direct orders.

But the queen is dead, you’ve forgotten, just as you did last night.

The cavalry’s lead by rebels, but not what you’re thinking, not your kind.

Every thought you have bows to them until it falls straight to damnation

So I keep listening to the dialogues or tributes,

waiting for the final destination.

-JW

Rapid Eye Movement

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I’ve lived past two cities with contained light sources.

They’re tightening around my neck with some nooses.

My burgundy dresses aligned with their tales

But in order to breathe, I went off the rails.

I’ve lived by five rivers, all seemingly dirty.

The locals swore I wouldn’t leave until thirty.

Now five years have passed and I’m haunted by them –

Isn’t leaving the original REM?

And what if I carry this spirit of judgement?

Somedays my heart runs yet some – it just doesn’t.

I’ve lived past two cities with contained light sources.

Perhaps to escape that I’ll need more wild horses.

-JW

Sick Leave

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Killing my every spare moment with buzz and with noise.

Made it thus far without booze spilling on my records of choice.

Ears bleeding from sound attacking my senses like thirsty wolves

But I’ve only made it this far through thoughts that dissolve.

Spreading my hopes on bread without guilt to eat them all up.

My last week’s happy face on the streets was a cover up

And my covers are tinted with deep blue undertones, if you noticed.

When death and I finally waltz, I might even get a bonus.

They call my eyes playful but painfully so, if that’s a hint.

The chaos behind those greyish stones could use a lighter tint.

A true artist never unveils tricks or techniques but I oppose –

When graveyard goes for the flash button, I strike a pose.

With each coming second the buzz will become a craftier thieve.

You’ll ignore these lines while I apply for another sick leave.

-JW

Tasteless Migraines

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Another change of pace is coming – my skin shatters, my shirt rips.

I don’t believe a single word you spread through your pale gospel lips.

No liveliness in that bright stare, no faith behind those blurry brows.

The black hair darkens as I leave but you keep shouting ifs and hows.

“A temptress” was what you once called me – while you ran with dirty crowds.

Your mouth reeks of tasteless migraines punching holes while masses bow.

As you convince me to go steady, I’m convicted for your crimes.

Another change of pace is ready – I go low as you count dimes.

The sunrise plays its part in north but I’m too tired to leave stars.

An arm pulls off the coats and armor, no love left for pre-lost wars.

-JW

Mint

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Peppermint leaves melting ice cubes with their vital scent.

I’m crushing your heart being nice while you’re smoking a Kent.

The window is calling my skeleton nightly, like it’s for rent.

“Take a step back, friend, and use one more day to make amends.”

The cold water is squeaking my name and I must yell back.

Listened to seven records today, ditched the blame and finished the track.

Still – I can’t sleep, the pain my brain vomits paints it all black

But I promised to stay. Demons entered my soul. What a heart attack…

Does everyone else feel this haunted just for breathing aloud?

Is it a split between those who I trust and us, stormy clouds?

I’d help every stranger I meet, if my mind said that it’s allowed.

My words can’t melt you away but they can circle and crowd

Until I’m up that hill, ditching your cigarette smell and my doubt.

I’ll get to the promised land first. I’ll get to the thought drought.

-JW

Francis Scott

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And to people who fell for the illusion of me doing well which I created –

I believed it too, but my mind stood in the cold and stayed berated.

Put one finger into the dark molasses, hit one more nail into the coffin.

Built a crematory of burnt bridges and needles dropping.

Yet – my gullible soul waited for the pain to soften.

I believe that everyone deserves a re-do but I wanted to have two

And maybe that’s too much to ask from my younger self, she’s still missing clues.

Once they reveal what’s hidden, she’ll learn not to overpay her dues.

In the distance I yet again see a sign blinking “What’s the use?!”

When I turn the other cheek, they steal my insecurities to turn me into a muse.

I know how to cause a fight but I’m yet to learn how to make it easy for me.

They once called me Francis Scott – all focused on the glitz, not on the story.

And I’ll keep covering my tortured being with saying “sorry”

When I don’t owe a single apology to people who came before me.

So fall for the mirage, don’t hesitate to bathe in pain’s glory.

-JW

Almost Freezing

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Killing my mind every evening, holding it back from the green light.

The current hits it with pleading but I won’t budge or put up a fight.

My fists are by my side if I ever need a savior for my tongue’s messes.

While everyone’s running in circles, the generals are launching stresses.

It’s too risky to reach my arm out for that green flame in these times.

But what if I don’t and it’s over, there’s no substance in between these lines?

Ah! The sweat dripping down my back are almost freezing as I plan the escape.

Three years later I’ll either be dead or in a desperate need of the brakes.

Give me a break. Put a pause on this and rewind in a more peaceful decade.

Decadence is slipping through their fists but the damages are prepaid.

So I keep on slaughtering my brain at every crooked turn, at every twist.

To cut these demons out of my dysmorphic body I might need an oculist.

-JW

Rules Of Fleeing The Burning City

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You can’t rely on this path dug by rebels like me.

It’s been crossed and dulled, impossible to see.

Can’t ride, can’t crawl through it in your Ante attire.

You won’t find a patsy to help you escape this fire.

Neon boneyards flaming in distance, viva Las Vegas!

Leave! Take all you can carry, call a powerful magus.

Hide with someone you trust in the city of betrayed

And hope this isn’t a night that you get played.

Cut all contacts or sweep them under the rug.

Don’t tell them what’s going on, don’t give a hug.

You can only swear on words of a rebel, hold on tightly.

Move up to the east, and keep moving there nightly.

Once the neon pollution leaves your left lung, sleep in.

The river is poisoned, the hills can always steepen.

As the air of the burning city flees your thirsty lips,

You’ll look back just in time to see how it still grips.

Staring back at you with its promise and realization –

Nothing incinerated, your mind was the ruination.

Those city towers were toying with your psyche.

You can’t rely on this path dug by rebels like me.

-JW

Covering The Petals

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Running for your life is not good enough, go faster, over the speed limit.

Ruining everything sacred in this looped fantasy of yours taught me to skim it

But never showed me how to sit through a storm with my blinders shut.

Your neck twisting around mine, pulling away, and we’re stuck in this rut.

“Life has no meaning,” they say, “if you waste it trusting your own guts and bones.”

“It has no meaning,” they repeat, “if you share love through cables and telephones.”

But it’s not easy to follow someone playing god with menacing conviction.

It’s hard to walk down the road of not being able to tell apart fact from fiction.

I keep bleeding on the razor’s edge, fingers all cut up from pretending I’m fine.

I leap forward and rock back, knowing too well that they’re approaching from behind.

But the mountains echo my pleas for safe escape and I see dew covering the petals.

The melody goes silent as I escape this dead-end of dead eyed people

Giving souls out as rentals.

-JW

Speaking in Tongues

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Don’t waste my time, I know how to do it on my own.

The tears dry by turning to ice while they call me Joan.

I might be a heroine but not yet a saint, don’t lean on this loan.

Sky stinks of pastels and my soul evaporates into acetone.

Birds outside of my window are shooting for the pale moon.

Hours passing by, promising that I can leave this place soon.

The destiny is dragging out my breaths to the ancient runes.

I don’t mind theatrics but this murder feels like a honeymoon.

The further down the road, the more absurd it all becomes.

So much time to spend, yet we have to follow the beat of the drums?

Let me scream into the world’s pillow while everyone hums.

So much time to waste, so many lively lungs but it seems –

No one is noticing the swords and the guns.

Am I speaking in tongues?

-JW