Tag: poetry series

The Sixth Year

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You’re smearing empty words all over the newspapers,

Making me curse loud enough to wake the neighbors.

I haven’t seen your face in six years but I know

You still bring the darkness wherever you go.

And once I was foolish enough to follow the trail,

Despising guardian angels for letting me fail.

Now I see you in a car purchased with blood money,

Bought by selling my hopes out, and ain’t that funny?

Blood’s only thicker than water for the lucky ones,

The roots you laid down in me won’t ever see the sun.

And the faux promises you spilled have evaporated,

They’re sleeping in the shadows, dangerously sedated.

It’s alright though, my rage can escape all your abysses,

But you can’t escape the truth or live without your fixes.

So just pray to the gilded gods that you can make it,

Just pretend one more day that if I can fake it,

You can also fake it.

-JW

Heart For Dinner

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The tires of your car ruin the perfect peace and radio silence

As you approach with crocodile tears glued to your lids like diamonds.

There’s toxic spite in your back pocket, the antidote’s in my bag.

Your stare can only hurt me that far

With its raging red flags.

Birds are not chirping tonight, no, they’re flying for their lives.

But I always stayed, through all your nosebleeds and nosedives.

Now you thank me one last time by handing me the trigger,

Hoping I have what it takes to resist

Eating your heart for dinner.

The trees lean in and wait for me to make the final decision.

I do not rush, I let my fury pierce the air with marksman’s precision.

My words slide through your stiff chest like some lost shrapnel

As I leave you there imagining

That we never happened.

-JW

The Forest Is My Church

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Velvet winds soothe my battle scars in the navy blue moonlight,

My feet are enchanted, they keep moving out of wicked spite.

I kneel, letting my bare skin touch a softly frozen heap of snow.

The forest becomes my church, and I’m seated in the very first row.

Curious creatures peak through the branches to catch a glimpse,

Caterpillars and butterfly wings mix with sharp teeth and fins.

And the ground beneath me shakes with a long awaited relief,

Hugging my wounded parts and covering them gently, leaf upon leaf.

Foxgloves ring their bells thrice, the forest echoes their sound.

They search for my soul in all the boxes marked “lost and found”.

One night they will discover it and I will be pushed into the light

But for now the morning wearily calls us as my sanctuary

Vanishes from sight.

-JW

Revenge

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The word tastes so bittersweet on my tongue,

Looks good on paper in an illuminated room.

I’ve perfected these plans ever since I was young

And you trapped yourself not a day too soon.

What do we have here? A cheap skin sack

Laced with a smidge of my own blood type.

A third rate man with a bow on the back,

Shimmery, yes, but never worth the hype.

So I look under the trembling, leaking lids,

Trying to make sense of the six years of pain.

Everything’s there, mental jitters and skids,

But I know how you love to show fake feign.

I pull your chair closer, I lift up your chin.

Your neck cracks in a despicable way.

The drops of sweat cover your grey skin

Therefore you’re aware I came to play.

But the moment I uncover my angry wrist

To scratch your sinful heart of teak,

The alarm punches my sleep with both fists

And I never get the revenge

I’ve been destined to seek.

-JW

Losing You

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The trees take me in their arms and let my eyes wash away the sins.

The soft humming of the wind gives a shelter to this poor heart of tin.

And the forest comforts me but not like you, it doesn’t hold me tight,

It hears my curses and heals my aches but it’s not enough

To get me through the night.

The fog raises over the treetops, it covers all the mystical creatures,

The white mist lands on me in pity, sighs quietly like a preacher.

And I still feel a thousand times heavier with each step that I take.

My vain existence was a miniscule droplet but you –

You turned it into a lake.

The path right in front of me melts into shadows and silent alarms.

The pines surround me, they make me surrender the stolen arms.

And I resist to hand over my sharpest knives but they persist

By telling me how my own head’s a poison

And I’ll be missed.

The words are difficult to swallow so I burst into fiery laughter.

“The irony of it all, the one who ends it was also the starter.”

And I run for the edge but then stop just to fall on my knees.

A vision of your face pulls me back to ground

And for a second I feel peace.

-JW

The Weightless Crucifix

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But don’t you ever die on that hill, don’t ever ideate,

Don’t tell them you sold me down the river for something greater

Than your own shame.

I hope you don’t get a day off when it comes to internal scrutiny.

Oh, but I’m not cursing you, quite the opposite,

I’m only asking for equity.

Hope the heavens hear me this time, despite how I’ve sinned,

Hope they forgive me for all the gods

I’ve boiled and tinned.

And don’t you ever feel sorry when the cash isn’t cutting it, no.

Remember – you thought one day it’ll be easy

For me to let you go.

So take the advice and drown yourself in your crooked politics.

I choose to remember, you choose to play the fool

Dragging the weightless crucifix.

Carry on, may the light of all your good deeds guide your blissful way.

We both know far too well it’s a dark road

No matter how much you can pay.

-JW

My Bastille

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I try hard to hold my past still

But it’s leaking putrid pastels.

Is there a point to hold on

To this forgotten echelon?

My legs keep being restless,

I can even taste the stress.

Is it my wishful thinking

Or can I sleep while blinking?

Or maybe we just pretend

That burning out is not a trend?

I try to tie the blasts in twill,

They try to forge my last will.

And I wonder – how come

I must always please the scum?

They never have to fix the stencil

If we agree to stand still.

But my feet keep running cold

While they trade our heat for gold.

So I spit out the foul pastil

And let my ego storm the Bastille.

-JW

Stopping The Time Machine

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And one day I won’t be this bitter,

My tongue won’t need a babysitter.

And one day I’ll learn to take a “no” –

Perhaps tomorrow,

Not today though.

One year the revenge will even out,

My hands won’t shake, lips won’t pout.

Maybe even this week I’ll be fine –

But not right now

While I’m still vile.

I promise – one morning it’ll stop.

There won’t be any tears to mop.

And one morning I’ll just let it go –

The time will finally

Take it slow.

-JW

Manipulus

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The gasoline is leaking out of your bad shoulder.

It’s been hurting since you put a hole in the wall

Because she didn’t let you hold her.

Now her face is just an apparition, fading so fast,

And your head is a long lost ghost ship

Fleeing all the safe shores half-mast.

The thoughts intrude and bite down with their incisors

As you recall promising her a sure grave.

Yet – her spite knew you’re none the wiser.

Now her body is cold but you barely touched her.

You merely gave her a foolish idea…

Maybe she was pushed by a bluster?

The flies are eagerly circling your puny defences

But you have all the good explanations –

Only you can’t say it to their faces.

The road ahead spirals like your fetid self-pity

And you know you’re forever haunted,

Even if you leave her bones in this city.

-JW

Capitulare

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She’s at the piano, playing her fingertips numb and soul sore.

Tinsel in her hair, glitter on the wrists, her childish mind at war.

The party around her roars like gunfire, she almost disappears,

Blends into the background hiding behind her faceless peers.

She’s on her tenth cigarette even though she quit a long time ago.

Whisky in her system, fuel in her one-track mind ready to blow.

No sadness, no regret, just a ton of anger in a short linen dress –

But don’t lose a finger comforting her, she’ll never confess.

She’s rearranging the thoughts but coming to the same conclusion.

The shivers slide down her spine, hurting like a contusion.

“What’s promised, must be fulfilled,” she silently whimpers

And tries to ignore her own violently shaking fingers.

She’s on the balcony unamused, not even slightly entertained.

The man by the bar represents all her guilt doused in heated shame.

The bottles stacked on expensive tables shatter at her sight.

Her lungs collapse under the relief of crashing into the dolomite.

(The people sigh as he winces:

“She wasn’t in her right mind.”)

-JW