Tag: poetry

Take a Bite

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Walking the streets feels lonely since I’ve been doing it to pay rent,

So many strange faces and worn out places, so many mixed messages sent.

The blood doesn’t ache – but the heart breaking for my wasted youth stings.

It’s been a while since I’ve stopped running or held a pair of kings.

Shadows over my shoulder building up in an unholy, black avalanche,

Yet everyone’s convincing me – look back, it’s a dove holding an olive branch.

No friends out there left to betray, but my loyalties don’t lie in the past.

Only so many bites to take out of me, I wonder –

Who will be the very last?

-JW

Leaving Ante: Part V

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Healing

We’re building a corporation from scratch – some luck and eighty-seven guns.

I’m calling you my co-conspirator when they find out so you don’t even run.

Zero factories around the globe, no employees good enough to hire –

Yet I’m convinced you’re the one ruining this, you started the tax haven fire.

The upholstery business is a nice shell for your mother’s inaudible cries.

It must’ve been Linklater who taught you how to be fine when the time flies.

My feet are sore from carrying the boxes of liquid guilt into the basement –

But I don’t mind, the art you keep and treasure was begging for defacement.

Now the flames are eating up the framework of the company without any shame.

Perhaps the next business we build will take less gasoline to stay in the game.

-JW

Leaving Ante: Part IV

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Escape (?)

I see a poorly lit bunch on the mountain tops, waiting for a confirmation sign.

No clue how to send the signal, the burning city left me dumbstruck and blind.

My voice is cracking from all the screaming, throat is aching viciously.

“I don’t have the strength to drag my knees any longer, just kill me and set me free.”

As soon as the words are spoken, someone gently grabs me by the shoulders.

My consciousness slowly drifts away. Are these like-minded souls or another cardholders?

Will they carry me home or will they take me back, to the neon lights of Ante?

I drift further away but in the back I hear them chanting: “Vigilante.”

-JW

Leaving Ante: Part III

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Trauma

How do you embrace the darkness, the fog lingering in your thoughts?

The guides have dropped dead and my mind is haunted, covered in moths,

So I’m praying to hills, I want to get past this mentor-less journey alive

But the wheels are turning to the uncharted territory, pulsating cyanide.

How to forget the grave they made me dig for myself, scarring me to agony?!

Yet – the actions are excusable because only the young and terrified will write a symphony,

A melody submissive enough for their listening pleasure, a hymn for the masses.

My shoulders still ache but I never sung the lullaby,

The one veiling plastic and hourglasses.

And how do you know there’s another side to the endless, smoke filled path I’m balking?

I’ve been penniless and dull, however, never have I felt like sleepwalking.

The dust is sitting still in the unforeseeable, contaminated air I’m chasing.

I know the fog is a part of the ride, perhaps – even the seatbelt, but really…

How do I embrace it when it’s easier to forever erase it?

-JW

Leaving Ante: Part II

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Caution

Dynasties of big-mouthed Roman generals in purple crawl the streets.

Spit and rumors everywhere, bald heads bowing their dirt-filled deeds.

But it’s not cheap to do the world dirty like that, to break a promise.

I was a kid back when I heard the last speech that was humble and honest.

My hate for the leaders made me hate my father, then – anyone who mattered.

If I had the option to save a friend or myself, I would choose the latter.

Not that I’m selfish or ungrateful, but the reality is nastier than fear.

..Maybe they’re close relatives? But what’s the difference if you can’t see clear?

(When I change for worse, I don’t want anyone near.)

So I carry on with a backpack filled with past disgraces, another one with future regrets.

Yellow bandana covering my dry mouth as the moon inevitably sets.

The purple crowds keep smearing truths back at the city, and I don’t mind.

I was raised to survive this war, not to lay my head down being kind in a fight.

-JW

Leaving Ante: Part I

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Stuck

The bar doors are open and neon light falls shyly onto the crosswalk.

A stranger bumps into my bare shoulder. It won’t interrupt the sweet talk.

Cigarette ashes land on glass tables and cover my stained ruby soul.

If he didn’t ask, I would’ve never admitted that I started at the pole.

Three stools away a thoughtless wave of laughter erupts, over and over –

I see doubt in the eyes of a girl and I want to scream, this much I owe her.

The moment is gone when a bottle of wine crashes leaving red dots in the corner.

Where was my savior back then?! Was I always a fraud and a goner?

My lids feel heavy as I’m guided to another cherry-colored car.

I wonder where my self-respect went, it really can’t be that far.

But perhaps my dignity was another re-run of a wonderful mirage.

-JW

The Last Moments of Being in Love

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We’re the personification of a thunderstorm after a heated summer day.

Relief is entangled in fresh air. The daisies in my cheeks are longing for rain.

As soon as the first droplets hit the chalky ground, a lightning strikes.

With the weight of my love I push you up a hill, disturbing the butterflies.

We’re the embodiment of warm July evenings turning chilly in the blink of an eye.

Fruit trees are tired from reaching for sun-kisses. The earth is bone dry.

When the thunder rumbles over the lonely fields, you’re carrying me deeper into the twilight zone –

Might as well run through the dark, the rain is so heavy it feels as if we have blinders on.

We’re the epitome of the golden hour paused by some biting wind.

The chimes are rocking back and forth, calling me saint right after I’ve sinned.

Rosy sky trickles down so quick, burns our skins aimlessly, like a pint of lava.

But we’re taken by the touch, we don’t see it.

When they’re asking which vices to erase, we both whisper “nada”.

-JW

Seven Feet: Candy’s Monologue

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Seven feet of sand was never quite enough to bury my pride.

Half a dozen sprained ankles on dreamy boulevards, but I’m there for the ride.

The thirst is pumping my vessels, it gets the blood rushing –

And the spring smells funny, so candy-like. Am I blushing?

Sweet sugar coats my fingers, oh man, I’m just shooting my shot.

Don’t be the saint – save the prayers and hymns, and whatnots.

You can’t deny my blame but I carry the scarlet letter well.

The Central Park Salinger wrote about is long gone, but so is the spell –

The charm, the colors, the old ways… All soaked in champagne.

Tinsel-filled parties taste so bittersweet, and they end in migraines.

But I’ll let you take a number, sorry it’s colored in blood barely dried –

Seven feet of sand was never quite enough to bury my pride.

-JW

April

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Whenever April comes around, I have this need to sleep by an open window.

The air is so heated and charged, I can’t brush it off. I need to feel the wind blow.

The fire in my bones is harsh to my body, I want the power to go out with a bang.

Whenever April comes around, another lover becomes a treat to my hungry fangs.

I’ve been dying of thirst for a cool spring breeze since I was bitterly seventeen.

No psychic wise enough, no fortune teller prosperous enough to crack my spleen –

But maybe a genie in the bottom of the bottle will tell another revolting story.

I wish I could stand up a little bit taller instead of being sorry.

We’re a dying breed, and we’re choking on antimony.

Whenever April comes, my insides throw a funeral – and I’m leading the ceremony.

-JW

Trigger

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No longer noticing airplanes over your house, it’s lonely these days.

The sky is empty. Only two pink clouds and a few lost sunrays.

Used to imagine that planes were stars guarding your thoughts.

Wished on a shooting hope but it didn’t work.

Horizon is covered in blank spots. A goddamn mirage.

The view out of my window seemed picturesque back then.

For a stranger passing it looked like a dollhouse, time and again.

Now the walls are too pale and the dust settles on my skin.

I’m pulling my hand away from the trigger so often –

Not often enough, much to my own chagrin.

The sunset feels Photoshopped, and I don’t know what to say.

For the first time I wanted to take your hand, I wanted to stay.

Now my foolish body is filled with butterflies with nowhere to run.

We might not have the stars or the airplanes, and screw that –

I really wish that I’m still the only one.

-JW