Tag: past traumas

Purposeful Violence

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My friends heard you know how frisky I get when I stand by a man like you.

There you are, punching holes in my paper walls after learning that we’re through.

No call backs though, no carton airplanes flying off this cliff I’ve put you on.

Six long months of miseries and resolving your twisted mind – do you even know

How much it hurts? I bet you don’t.

Never have I admitted to liking this game you’re lobbying but I read the rules –

A punch to the gut is a sign of love, a stab in the back is love times two.

Some days I wonder how I got that far, tearing myself up for a taste of passion –

The closest feeling to being cut in pieces with a hot knife and distributed

To everyone I hate in rations.

“Never trust a perfect person,” they say, but then ask you to stop being picky.

Apparently romance is only great if the ice is thin and each step is tricky.

Let’s be truthful – it’s all about how it seems, not how it feels, haven’t you noticed?

The worse your mental state gets with each fight, the more they cheer your passion

And give violence a purpose.

-JW

A Short History Of Another Working Class Disaster

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I spent the day under covers trying to uncover my own truths about healing

Because I’d spent a decade believing I’d rather be acceptable than breathing

Through my own lungs, with two pink cheeks, with soft skin and mind.

But I couldn’t bear that cost so I erased myself gram by gram,

Until they went blind.

I used to believe I’d rather cut out my own eyeballs than notice an imperfection.

Years wasted thinking that how I look was the reason I got most rejections,

Not because my carcass was barely holding the pale surface together as a trophy,

But don’t call the cops on my stolen years and feel free not to cry

A soft-spoken “sorry”.

I found happiness in truth but I never looked for truth in happiness, I couldn’t.

The pain left in me was a fireproof glass but the joy was short-lived and wooden,

And the streets weren’t welcoming because nothing’s a compliment to a deflector –

Not the classic kind, just another working class disaster repeating itself

Like a broken vector.

-JW

Black Hair Dye And Hospital Rooms

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Six stitches on my left thigh from the bruising your spite caused.

I bang my neck against the walls but they’re quiet, holding the applause.

No one notices my pleas for painkillers or your black hair dye fumes.

Trapped in a hospital room built out of hunger and imagined dooms.

“You’re not right,” I hear someone think through the yellow brick doors.

I squint but don’t lift my lids off the ground.

Must’ve been the corpse of my imagined flaws.

Six stitches on my scalp from the damage your faulty perception caused.

I claw out my hair but you ask to keep digging my nails with dirty paws –

No one sees as I fade away, begging for a way out, other than the window.

They dye my hair fiery red. I hear someone from the backstage cheer “bingo”.

-JW

Introduction To An Unreliable Narrator

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Did I promise to tell you the truth with all these lines

Or did I promise to lie until each of them rhymes?

I can’t hold an honest conversation about my pain

Not thinking it’s a competition that consumes my brain.

Yes, I’m sick, swallowed by the system and chewed up,

Looking like a normal product of society, maybe, somewhat.

My left foot chained to a curling iron thinning it out,

My right arm drained of its blood by panic and yesterday’s doubt.

But you might pass me in the street wondering how I’m so well –

And truthfully, no one but me could really tell

How a mess of a human presents that well on the front page

Or the Facebook feed of another lover I blocked with rage…

Did I promise to tell you the truth with these lines

Or did I promise to lie until each of them rhymes?

Whatever you heard – must be worth all the energy to get this far,

And if you believe that I’m being honest, you might have a heart.

-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

Fire Exit

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Pulling the scabs resurfaced on my brain, burning and drowning them,

Pouring on alkaline but it’s missing, dripping down, making my ego numb.

Cutting the old battle scars open to look for some fruitless revelations

But it appears I’m fresh out of clues, and these scabs are my damnation.

Squeezing my neck tighter to stop the air from leaving my powerless bones.

It doesn’t seem to help. Voices are attacking like gargoyles, raising tone.

Deep down I know that waiting it out must do the trick but am I ready?

I’ve forgotten how to take the fire exit when the building doesn’t look steady.

-JW

Vault

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I’m willing to take the risk and sneak into the vault again.

You asked me to bring another shadow so I’m giving up the oxygen,

Putting on the rose armor, tying my laces, picking out rebellious thorns,

Wearing the faux leather helmet and imagining it has three horns.

I’m scared for my life to take the journey, to rip out another page,

To bring it back for others to read, then burn…

As if manuscripts really aged.

You know better than that, no unholy texts needed to rip me apart

But sometimes in order to receive your hits, I must work incredibly smart.

So I’m tightening the screws in my jaw, preparing the camouflage –

This time I have confidence that even the darkest caves won’t dare to sabotage.

No matter how many times I promise I won’t dig up the raising heart,

I’m always willing to sneak down one more time…

As if painful sacrifice really lived in this art.

-JW