Tag: original writing

Hour X

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The forest leans on my sprained ankles and rusty knuckles.

The trees breathe my scared heartbeats. I’m another medal

In their belt buckle.

Dark branches hit my scalp and I’m struggling to see,

Each leaf is a mystery man waiting for my red, restless heart

To burst and bleed.

Fog is covering my shoulders like a breath-taking blanket.

Each step on the moss is a step closer to the ceremony

Of my funeral banquet.

There are men screaming from the roots of these trees, they chuckle.

I turn around in time to see the forest forming a circle around me.

They bow as I ruckle.

-JW

Through My Thunders

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Wish I could encapsulate you standing there in your Rolling Stones t-shirt.

When I look at you in dim mornings, I’m glad I never became a preacher.

But you’re still sacred, even though god and I – we’re done with discussions.

It’s a warzone driven by blackmail and terror because I dared to ask questions.

Wish there was a way to absorb you with my skin, wish touch wasn’t the limit.

There’s no surprise that the way you shine is mistaken for a cheap gimmick.

But you’re still worthy, even if banks have banned my face for the third time.

I walk the road covered in bankruptcies and negotiations of whether you’re a crime.

Wish someone could cure you of the spell that’s making you act this brave.

Whenever the rest is giving up, you come up with ways to nurture and save.

But you’re still dirty, covered in untreated calluses from yesterday’s wonders.

It’s a path designed by the rich or the lunatics to survive through your thunders,

But I’ll pull through. We’ll cross out the days and forget the numbers.

-JW

She Fights Back

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The rumors are true, my angels are laying with the demons this evening.

The good, the bad and the morally corrupt thoughts have lost meaning,

And I’m watching the clouds dance with a storm raising in my rib cage –

Will I stay alive if I choose to wipe the record clean and turn the next page?

Or will I repeat hell’s second circle, mixing trust with an appetite for lust?

The eleventh commandment said “In desperate times, do as you must.”

I’m watching the sky unravel the knots in my stomach by keeping a promise

To always keep me safe, as long as the pain in my chest still feels honest.

Red reflections surround my sun while it’s setting for reasons unknown.

Too soon to give up my ironclad ego, too late to go back to my tombstone.

And I let the rumors in, and I stand in front of my angels and demons tonight.

This is it. All the shame weighing me down can either win or make itself light.

She fights back. The sky is gazing back in affright.

-JW

Lighting Flashes

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Steeper by the second, it’s growing steeper.

You’re in pain just to be your brother’s keeper.

Sandcastles built on concrete, I cannot oppose –

You build unstable structures

Always ready to explode,

Always crowded with ghosts.

It’s faster each moment, it’s getting out of hand.

Can you build steady hope out of grains of sand?

The hill has no mercy, we’re both so alike.

I have nothing to say

But they’re attaching the mic.

Lower with time, my spirit is being lowered.

The third pit of hell refused to be overpowered.

My left eye is seeking God, it can’t be right.

Before the lighting flashes

I’m thrown back into the night.

-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

Ana

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Hands on my body, her hands are getting me drunk.

It was hard to say no so I jumped off, I sunk.

All the flags are rosy if your eyes are pumped with blood,

If your “no” causes storms and a biblical flood.

Hands on my hands, her palms get me so damn angry.

The fangs pierce my neck and she keeps the pills handy –

Just in case I try to outrun my faith and leave her be

So she chants “it’s you and me, baby” like a prophecy.

Hands on my throat, her hands are taking my breath.

I’m ready to submit while she quotes Macbeth.

All the flags are red but she’ll turn you colour-blind

And you’ll only see the best your future can offer

When it’s already behind.

-JW

Waterproof

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You should never speak to me again or even look at this direction.

The floor is made of paper cut-outs of your short aggressions.

I’m dirty, I haven’t been baptized since you entered the room.

Ceiling hanging over my neck as a guillotine but you’re yet to learn –

Under pressure I bloom.

All that’s been taken by you during decades, please, take even more.

My back is strong enough to never look back, doesn’t mean it’s not soar.

The next time we go toe to toe, don’t beg me to stay like you always do.

You should never speak of me again or ever assume for one second

My soul isn’t waterproof.

-JW

Clockwise

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Living on the edge of an astronomical clock turning backwards.

The time isn’t real, nor is the space – we’re simply bad actors.

Leaping through the worst past and present can offer, spinning

Back into my oblivion patched with torn memories, singing,

Re-enacting old scenes while the hour hand’s draining me to the bone.

Might feel obscene to these petty people living in their heads

All alone.

But I go up the minute hand, I chase the escape wheel and fall –

Hanging in the flow of the time by a blue thread, dirty and small.

Jumping after each palm reached out to me but I’m somehow missing.

My spine is rubbing into another manipulated reason to stop hissing

And get back to giving all my warm blankets to those who bow

So low to see the last inch of hope leaving the body I liked years back

But now barely know.

I cling to the second hand, almost being ripped in two by the heat.

The change of algorithm is washing my brain of sins and of greed.

Running up the hill of no escape, right up to the promised rope –

You might think I’ll make a noose but by know you must know

I’m not a trope

And I’d rather tie the ends together to keep my own brain intact

Than give you another graveyard fairy-tale of a ghoul eating the hero of my favorite tale

In the second act.

-JW

Honey Honey

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Honey, the kids aren’t doing alright this time around –

Our screaming from dusk till dawn is not like the movies have shown

And The Death Watch is making its rounds.

But honey, it’s not that gruesome, we didn’t hit hard –

The big sister got what’s coming, the little sister learned how to sprint

And how to keep up the guard.

And Hun, it’s not unusual, violence is what keeps us together –

A vulture and its prey… Which one of them is the killer? Do we even care

If they’re birds of a feather?

Honey, the little one seems traumatized, should we be quiet –

Or should she learn the rules to being her mother’s daughter already

Before starting a riot?

Oh, Hun, she’s not taking the yelling and fists too well –

Are we not normalizing the scenery enough with the props and all?

Will she hate us if she dwells?

***

“Honey, Honey, the kids aren’t doing alright still, I’m sorry to break it.

One of you under the ground, the other continuing the legacy of trauma –

It is not my place to strangle your stamina or shake it

But you could have picked a better melodrama

Than the lives you ruined by trying to make it.”

-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