Tag: poetry series

Ultimatus

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Every portrait on the wall has wandering eyes,

Every time I look at the phone you have me paranoid

But I don’t take my own advice.

There’s no privacy in love and no respect in control.

I might act like you’re fooling me greatly

But your lies are barely staying afloat.

So I confess to you all my deadliest urges

And you say you hope I would just get it over with,

Not taming the darkness that emerges.

You keep pushing me further, calling me distasteful.

“If you ever leave, I’ll know I was right,

You were never faithful.”

Words can build character, they can burn down cities,

And after months of hearing you on the loop

My anger turns into pity.

Every photo on the wall has my lifeless eyes,

Every time I look at you, the poison sinks in more

Until all self-preservation is paralyzed.

-JW

Candle Fever

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There’s nothing on my mind as I open the window and light a cinnamon scented candle.

The fragrant autumn air mixes with cinnamon creating a daydream difficult to dismantle.

My feet caressing the cold floor, circling and spinning with the music and the winds.

I lean forward and snap back, I wave my arms until I shake out the icky anxiety pins.

Nothing but the light, no one but the tiny warm flame and me waltzing around the room.

Nothing but the bare leaves levitating towards their death while trees await the next bloom.

The busy street by my building is almost suspiciously still, it’s quiet, it’s dead.

A nervous pain bites my skull. It might be the time to wrap myself up in the bed.

Nightmares enfold me, the dreams are all bad, they chew away at my deserved rest.

I try pinching myself but the scenery forces itself in my mind, it grows more obsessed.

The worst of demons try feasting on my fingers, I taste their venom in my system.

A pale girl in white passes me with her bike, yelling I should try and kiss them.

But I keep crawling backwards, turning my face away from their eleven tongues

Bruises all over my legs, one shoe missing…

The creature’s hissing, suddenly it lifts me up like tongs.

So high in the smoky air, there’s no way to breathe in, no way I can break free…

Suddenly, it lets me go and I’m falling – once I meet the ground, I’ll be nothing but debris.

Cold sweat pouring down my neck as I sit up in my dark bedroom through a violent scream.

Head pulsating through auras, through hallucinations, through shiver-like beams.

The mirror on the closet door looks frighteningly similar to the creature from the hellhole.

My mouth is dry, everything seems blurry – I swallow a pill and a bottle of water whole.

Shoulders shaking, pulse raising as I fantasise about dark figures weeping under my bed.

I pray to the same gods I curse out on workdays, I pray to the pastor I snapped like a thread.

Slowly, unwillingly the next day arrives, it lands on me with the force of seven seas.

The headache is still there and my vision is hazy, the pain is here to say, it seems.

I rock back and forth on the floor of the bathroom, I rock until I can no longer see.

The cloudy pictures slide by without making sense, I try to count breaths but only get to three.

The next time I open my eyes is the Monday morning, not sure how the weekend slipped by.

Twenty unanswered texts and five missed phone calls tell me I don’t have an alibi…

But who’s the victim? Why are my ankles scarred and thumbs – unsteady?

Why is my scorching head burning holes in the floor? Let me die already.

There are iron rods stabbed through my cervical vertebrae without visible wounds,

The pulsating pain echoes in my every nerve and muscle, my patience has no funds

So I shriek clawing at the tiles, punching the walls, scratching my thighs.

It hurts more every minute and I don’t care who gets scared by my morbid cries.

The film runs out of colour, it’s once again black for an eternity, it seems.

My weak wrists hold onto the last four walls standing while I float through the dreams.

One hour or one day, it all feels the same when you’re high in the agony peaks.

Not sure if I’m alive at all. Not sure if there’s any warmth in my neck or my blueish cheeks.

Contorted, forgotten, left alone in the room with my worst fear on the pedestal –

The vulnerability shows its crooked teeth and my polished stamina grows skeletal.

I gather the last of my spite to stand up and look into the gilded bathroom mirror

But the beast staring back at me has no familiar features so I let my blood simmer.

My palms look too clawlike, my scleras are scarlet, my neck – twisted to the side.

So I grab a lighter and the burnt out cinnamon candle

To destroy this monster with fire.

-JW

Bad Augurs And Worse Tempers

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Photo by Anastasia Shuraeva from Pexels

Scratches on my door, figures by my bed,

White faces in the windowpane.

I know something horrid is approaching.

The stars blink wily as ghouls refrain.

Cuts appear all over my tired body,

They ooze, they burn like wildfire.

But I can’t leave this feeling alone

With its spooks, too dark and dire.

Even paper bruises my skin these days,

I smear the blood all over.

The void behind my forehead widens

Engulfing the room, bursting the controller.

Yet I stay with the rising discomfort,

The curtain is ready for the last show.        

The pure panic in my gaze spirals

As the mirror yells torturously:

“Virago!”

-JW

Three Churches

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The empty city echoes every step I take on the uphill street.

Not a person in sight, only my breath and the lantern heat.

The houses I’m passing are certainly begging for repairs

But saying I love these darker corners of my city any less

Wouldn’t be fair.

I pass three churches during my 6AM run each morning.

(The fourth I don’t count because it looks too boring.)

The first one has two huge towers and a devoted staff,

The third one sells dead flowers and tombstones

With pre-written epitaphs.

The second one hides shyly behind the trees in the park,

It’s so old that the silhouette alone scares me in the dark.

There’s a single light at the entrance, it violently flickers.

Each time I’m spooked by its presence, I swear –

Someone slightly snickers.

But nothing compares to the graveyard fostering ghostly candles.

Most wouldn’t feel at ease passing, even call me a vandal.

Yet I stare at it in the moonlight, I forget about the pain.

It’s only me and the unknown pleasures

Of losing the gathered blame.

The others keep rejecting these gloomy city corners as the paragon.

“Aren’t you afraid, isn’t it scary for you to carry on?”

However, the church bells keep ringing, vestiges call for me.

I’d sell my soul and yours, too,

For another morning of clarity.

-JW

Concrete Gods

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When nobody’s around, I sneak out to the forest to dance.

I greet every critter, I hold it in my trembling hands.

The moonlight pours its salvaging light over my arms,

It tingles my spine, releases all the pressure and harm.

So I waltz to the never-ending music of this greenery,

My bare thumbs touching every inch of the scenery.

The lines in my palms blossom like rare spring flowers

But they fade when the sky releases the sunlight showers.

I return to my shelter, re-entering my life more than sleepless,

Pretending to blend in with those walking around heatless.

When there are people around, I hide my muddy feet,

I secretly cross my fingers when admitting complete defeat.

Each afternoon we all bow to the same concrete gods,

Then go home and unwrap our faces from the phony gauze.

When they all go to sleep, I sneak into the forest to scream.

The soundwaves escaping my lips scorch the chartreuse leaves.

-JW

The Key To LED Is Blue

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The mauve satin sky has fallen upon my borough

Giving all faces the anonymity of a John Doe.

We’re all in veils, we’re balancing on the rim.

We all move in vain, it’s muted, dull and dim.

The light we consume can be bought in store

And houses in my street have the same iron door.

Each night it seems there’s a stranger in my bed.

The illusion of normalcy is messing with my head.

I could swear – the sun’s made from diodes too.

Some keep chanting, “the key to LED is blue.”

Although it seems likely what’s inside remains real

They did replace my roses with stainless steel.

So I try to look closely at jasmines and maples –

The edges are fastened with invisible staples.

Translucent wires keep forcing me to smile

While my throat’s burning with curses and bile.

My pillow’s filled with pages of charred books,

There’s only normalcy, normalcy

Wherever I look.

-JW

Emptying The Guns

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And she painted her rooms black, every edge, every single wall.

The intruders thought she’d gone mad when visiting her that fall.

No one asked out loud though, they let it slide for the sake of it all.

She painted her rooms black, then laid on the floor dressed in white

Just to feel small.

And she cut off her long hair, she shortened her skirts and dresses.

The grass tickled her thumbs when she ran away from all the messes –

No one seemed to notice though, no one ever stopped the presses.

She cut off her hair and sold half of her closet,

She burned up their old addresses.

And she walked for miles gasping every time the glass cut open her skin,

The people throughout the city promised to cut off her fins.

No one said it but the intention was clear – no witch, no sin.

She walked the city, and each blade they pushed in her back

Felt like a tiny pin.

And she carried on, walked even faster, and readied her boats.

The village folks triumphantly whispered, “Witches never float.”

No one screamed in pain, they simply collapsed all at once.

She’s carried this weight for decades,

Let her finally empty the guns.

-JW

Your Death Wasn’t Televised

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Delivery notes piling up on your doorstep, Christmas lights still in your window.

Will they ever even notice how your worn-out sofa is missing one beige pillow?

The time passes and much to my chagrin nobody seems to care about your absence.

I drown my mind in self-loathing, waste my money on pricy gins and absinths.

But day after day you fail to make the headlines shake with vulgar excitement –

Was your life truly this lonely, were you left to rot in this world’s confinement?

No, I’m not sorry, at least for you, it’s cruel that I had to stay behind to watch,

To witness how your lifeless body wasn’t recovered from the pumpkin patch.

A week has gone by, only now I see the neighbours snooping in your garden,

Knocking without any luck, growing paranoid, offering the Satan a bargain.

Some detectives show up, some prints are taken, some folks are interviewed.

The bloody hammer cemented in my basement wall won’t let them prosecute.

So I observe from a distance, yet I’m never close enough to connect the dots –

Can you really blame them? You were shy, backdropping those who called the shots.

At least it’s what they repeat – but I knew better, I got to see the very worst.

You called my phone and you banged on my doors for weeks, you had the thirst

But you didn’t have the motive which made you the perfect stranger to me.

You peeped through my windows at night, sang about my mezzanine.

I didn’t know your name, couldn’t tell what you looked like, goddamn bastard.

You thought you’re in charge but I used your garage like a splashboard –

Possibly in that lurid moment your vicious brain realized what it’s done,

And when the hammer landed, your hellfire started blazing like the sun.

But it’s all good if I deserve the eternally unforgiving flames too,

I’m not looking for excuses, pardons or second chances.

As long as you’re the first down there, balancing on razors in the sinners’ zoo,

My blissful heart whirls in mysterious dances.

-JW

And The City Lights Followed

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Too often I forget that it’s never completely and utterly dark in this city.

I crave the feeling of opening my eyes at night, my despair sitting with me,

And staring into the pitch black darkness. It’s rather revealing.

But I wake up each night to sirens or the neighbours viciously heaving.

It’s never dark enough for me to stumble upon something yet undiscovered

So I put my head under the covers to distract me from the blossoming colors.

The white noise coming from the electric buzz of neon chases me,

Down the halls, across the roads, into the trees which once sung me to sleep.

Have I even slept for the last couple of years, have I really dreamt?

The city lights pour down my jawbone humming, “You have been exempt

From the long hours, scary shadows under the trees, from your own claws.”

Yet nowadays my lips reach for the phone when a yesterday calls.

Perhaps I’m narrating this because it could be taken away if I stop,

If I look back one last time and the woods no longer echo the plot,

If the paths through our favorite pines or birches forget my flowery scent,

I might wake up one day burning my sanity to cover the rent…

Therefore I ran and the city lights followed,

The noose around me glowed fluorescent.

-JW

The Man In The Forest

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He looked at me through the window each night. He was there at 9 PM without a fault.

You could barely tell if you didn’t look hard enough – but if you did,

There was a cigarette burning in the piny vault.

The forest surrounded the house tightly. I know, it was highly unlikely for anyone to be in this lair.

But… look at the trees by the shack and tell me that you don’t see

A lighter sparkling like the state fair.

There was also the noise, rain dripping on his plastic coat ever so gently. Impossible to miss it.

I’ve lived in these woods for two decades, this is way off, yet the cop told me:

“Don’t be so hot headed, little missy.”

What else could I do? I locked the doors, bolted the windows, left the knife close by just in case.

Each morning I found fresh footprints in the mud, it almost seemed

As if he’d picked up the pace.

And then he started leaving me gifts. Was it a cruel joke, was it just to prove nobody cares?

He knew I haven’t had any visitors since he started this charade.

He knew I’m unravelling tear by tear.

I moved into the second storey three days ago – hoping more doors will grant me some peace.

There was a photo of me sleeping on the kitchen table the next morning.

It seems the bastard has my keys.

So I’m not sleeping tonight. I’m not bravely waiting by the door, I’m under the living room table,

Terrified, small, feeling the adrenaline punching a hole in my brain,

Waiting for my pulse to become stable.

He can’t see me if he comes in through any of the doors, can’t hurt me or frighten my chilly bones.

For the longest time I don’t hear anything at all, it’s suspicious.

“But he would know where I am if he’s already inside my home.”

The thought reaches me too late, he rushes in from the kitchen and blocks the way.

It’s too dark to see his face but I can tell he’s smiling as he speaks:

“A lovely hideaway, dear, too bad your daddy refused to pay.”

-JW