Tag: mental illness

Picture Perfect

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Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy from Pexels

Shattering circus mirrors on grey streets, my boots punching straight through them.

Setting fire to another pastel advert asking “us ladies to starve and lose ‘em”.

You cannot blow up the crooked system telling you how to be happy dying

But you can bite its head off trying to hear how the filtered buzz is lying.

The feathers of poorly made starlet costumes flying off as I tear them open –

If we’re exploring what beauty means, let’s also show the parts that are broken.

There are no friends in ecosystems built out of denying every human emotion,

Made out of caricatures of people who only stay young by staying in motion.

“Another pound gained means another rumour that her husband doesn’t love her –

We didn’t write the rules, it’s her fault she kept thriving when others ran for cover.”

What is this obsession of being camera ready and acting the part as well?

Your life is not up for an Oscar so stop reaching for the poisoned wishing well,

And your lungs are designed to scream not to swallow every shallow remark –

Lovely, please, dig a hole in the dust to bury the voice that haunts you

And leave the grave unmarked.

-JW

Growing Pains

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Photo by Engin Akyurt from Pexels

I keep picking apart every challenging moment I’ve felt

And I turn it into another foolish misdeed on the shelf.

A sinner, a torturer, a victim of my own darkness, a fraud.

I refuse to call myself anything less than somebody flawed.

But I want to grow up, I just don’t need to grow old today.

The harder I try to play it safe, the harder my parents pray.

I’m not a bad person, I’m only the worst with myself.

Can you even see how hard I’m trying to reach out for help?

Yet – my ego’s rotten and I’d rather make it tragic.

My brain’s a one way road to sadness, you can call it magic yet ratchet.

-JW

Assigned Loneliness

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Too much time spent with lovers but without anybody to love.

Whenever it gets personal, I flip the script and burn the whole show.

Cannot allow anyone to know, anyone to find out the withins

So I watch the world from side lines while it practises spins.

No one wins in a game of two where the first one is cheating

While the other turns a blind eye to third parties bleeding.

And maybe I’ve never been good at business or tango, or chess

Hence I keep looking for insignificant loners to undress.

…Perhaps it’s the sense of running out of time that drives me

To choose quick battles instead of picking up wars to win wisely.

But loneliness cannot be assigned by others, it has to be felt –

As long as I’m feeling nothing, I’ll play with what has been dealt.

-JW

Stolen Mirrors

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Photo by Pedro Figueras from Pexels

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

A Single Round

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Photo by Engin Akyurt from Pexels

They kept asking me to apologize for the pain that they inflicted,

My back against the floor and my palms still only half infected.

The concrete pushing against my shoulders as I sit on the ground.

“Agreed. Take your shots at me but you each get a single round.”

Their terms of service didn’t understand the notion to simply fire

But I obsess over little things and small people no one admires

So I took their ignorance guns right to my ears, right to my heart.

The empty bullets stuck to my skin and punctured it like a dart.

They begged me to say I’m sorry for shooting myself with sorrow

When I was the one in the corner, still willing to face tomorrow.

The trauma keeps crushing my temples as I sit on the ground.

“Agreed. Shoot your bullets again but you each get a single round.”

-JW

Frostbite

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Photo by Matheus Bertelli from Pexels

Stuck between a rut and a manic firework show pouring sparkles in the cuts.

Luck always outruns the ones who pretend that no gates are constantly shut.

Rude thoughts intrude my white blood cells, whispering how I’m a prude.

Crude laces and nude portraits covered in mud spin around me, reckless and lewd.

Lost, my hearts crossed in this sin city of Sue and sewers covered in rust.

Lust wraps the frost but I still feel pity that’s due. Eyes grow distant and crossed.

Dark lands leave marks on my shoulders while mirages sing to me through an arc.

Hark! The fire sparks, cold and ruts are camouflages of anchors dragging my soul

As a barque.

-JW

The Mirror Room

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Photo by Lukáš Dlutko from Pexels

I’m in the mirror room again. Nothing but reflections on reflections.

You can’t hide from the truth because facts don’t win elections.

Wherever you look – another portrait of you, distorted and agonized.

The ones that did it to you run free as devil can’t be penalized.

Everything you see is yourself, and it’s wrong, insufficient, insulting.

Why can’t you take a point chisel to the surface for some sculpting?

Your breath doesn’t taint the picture, it only enhances the desire

To throw yourself against the sharp edges of narcissism for hire.

The light is too bright, it’s blinding you into revealing the mistakes –

All the regrets or moments of doubt are baked into remakes.

You shut your eyes but the reflector in your brain keeps peeking

Into the mirror room again while your confidence keeps leaking.

What are you seeking in those charmed reflections?

Why aren’t you leaving?

-JW

Seven Armies

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Photo by Vladyslav Dushenkovskyi from Pexels

Jumping off the high horse with my name carved in its sides,

Wondering about what caused world’s greatest wars and suicides.

My mania is pouring out the chalices, strangling the victors.

Seven armies couldn’t hold it if the rules were any stricter.

Fields yield silently before me as I stab their crooked flesh.

What a pretty picture this is – slay with fear all dressed in mesh.

Not a single soul in sight to test my bravery and titles.

Rebels staying by my side, resting guns on red hot rifles.

Doctors tiptoeing around me with their pills and perfect crimes –

As they throw their words against me, I throw spite in twisted chimes.

Drums of Ante sing in distance but I kneel and grab the dust.

I cut open all my scabs to dip my ego in green lust.

-JW

Before I Wake

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I remember how I fell for two kind words spoken in a greyish dawn.

No color anywhere but in your lips, you fit in like the blindest pawn.

I guided your intentions downhill with my unfillable desires, seeking redemption.

Not a single hair moved on your chest when I called you my emancipation.

“Playing chess is unfair if your opponent has never learned to hold the rhythm

But you speed up your tango because it takes two to slay the monster with him.”

So I stay in the game I play with myself whenever I lose the colors,

Whenever I choose myself over somebody I suffocated within the covers.

No one will ever learn the truth, I saved the only copy on my conscience.

The devil has a duplicate key but the road to hell is paved with God’s sins

Masked as good intentions.

-JW

Flamethrowers And Butterflies

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Photo by Adrien Olichon from Pexels

My hands tied behind my back, eyes covered with two dark patches.

Sounds are slipping by me in circles, lights are dancing in flashes.

Your hand in mine was the last touch I asked for, what I wanted.

When they took the blindfolds off, I took your red cheeks for granted.

Then they shut the sun off once again and chained me to a neon cross,

Took a flamethrower to the first butterflies, burned them with the fresh moss.

Concrete squares as far as I can sense in my blind disbelief, or further.

My feet bleeding from their coffin nails, but this isn’t a murder.

This is my own mind throwing itself in a free fall, chanting “salvation”.

I’m pulling all the magician’s tricks to get back into narration.

The lock is too heavy and my wrists are too loud to play it by ear.

My hands tied behind my back, eyes covered

But I manage to let out a single tear.

-JW