They put me on a pedestal I can’t afford to fall from,
Citing my wicked gaze as the driver of my stardom.
I bow down low just to hide my childish fears,
Then scream into a red void with no one to hear.
They tell me to act human but treat me like a doll.
Their necks bend and break when they lose the controls.
Not sure who I was, only that I caused disasters.
I am their sacrifice,
I am also the puppet master.
-Jackie
There was some grace in our bones back in the golden days,
The knots in our chest didn’t set themselves ablaze like hay.
The guns we carried in our tongues only hurt on Sunday nights
And the batteries in our chests didn’t lose spite or light.
We spun faster but landed gently on fire-proof conclusions,
Nowadays we let the inferno rain as the most merciful solution.
The safety triggers stay buried like old tales for naïve kids,
But still – we almost feel sorry for blowing off these rusty lids.
The sun only shines on us by accident and we somehow thank it,
As if the world itself met us and asked for a safety blanket.
And they keep spitting up poison when preaching grand forgiveness,
It seems that they only speak up to polish their crumbling business.
Hence I put down the iron keys and walk away from the fright,
Some say I’m the only one to risk it – and perhaps they’re even right.
Not that I have time to hear them out, I must step out in the rays.
There’s some grace in the flesh that doesn’t preach the olden ways.
-JW
The walls within this sickly concrete sea monster always look too dull,
The faces are greyer than October sky, barely sticking to their skulls.
I bury all clues and shotguns where I know I’d never step my foot again
And blend in with the walls, breathing in fumes and fresh propane.
The lines are long but I’m used to waiting for an uneventful death.
Each humanoid figure around is the same – everything but a real threat.
We submissively march to the music and lower our eyes when it stops.
Some ashy buildings appear on the horizon just as my stomach drops.
I can sense the electric nervousness strings overtaking the numb crowd.
This is the moment we could run for cover – only if we were allowed.
Instead we brace for impact as cement fills the streets, we are tongue tied.
We’ve been taught since a very young age:
When the city calls, you must always be ready to die.
-JW
Youth leaning over the half-built walls is not that upsetting but don’t turn away.
If you grew up when metal curtains were burning, there’s debt you need to re-pay.
You’ve been the dead horse beating back for far too long, and we’re not playing.
If you don’t want to listen to your children one bit, please know:
For this party you’re stuck in – we’re not paying.
I learned a thing or two from my daddy on smiling while playing deadly or dirty.
The lessons pour out of me as I’m wiser, they won’t stop until I’m far in my thirties.
Makes me wonder – what was it in him that made so many lost souls scared to death?
But then I remember how horrified I was when for a second he was my only safety net.
No backstabbing or second thoughts in that mind, only going straight for the kill.
So if I could see through his petty lies, don’t hold me back and ask me to shut up
Until the very moment my heart is perfectly still.
Let the youth lean on the same fences you’ve been holding up for many seasons.
Let the youth learn how they were props that you only kept in place by threatening
To charge every challenger for treason.
-JW
Forceful interrogation tactics greedily pushed on fragile necks.
Overturned rules pawing their ways to palaces built out of gloomy wrecks.
No monster frightening enough to make me look back at the fear.
I’m not putting my head down for you, I’m tired of speeches so insincere.
Pressure me all around the clock, dig me some ditches and holes.
You’re still the one who compensates just to feed the moles.
The water you fed me was poison but why would you bat an eye.
You’d rather ignore the pain you cause and scream at the man in the sky.
I’m tired of seeing your filthy paws reaching for the promised glory.
While you’re building skyscrapers, I’m glad I reached the second storey.
So I’m keeping my head up despite you stepping on it with iron boots,
And if you decide not to shoot, we both might see the day when our spite
Turned damaged flowers into fruits.
-JW
I used to get drunk on feeling blue about your love,
I used to get hyped when the push came to shove.
My palms sweating at your arrogance, heating up,
But I kind of enjoyed being there, being stuck.
The empathy I carried was too heavy for your shoulders.
The hate you poured weighed me down like a boulder.
I said: “You don’t have to agree but please listen.”
You snapped. “I hope your kind dies out of this system.”
The anger blinded my focus so I span out of control.
Tired of the middle ground, done with trying to cajole.
I used to get drunk on my silence to keep it nonviolent,
But I’m done thinking you can cut me open,
I’m done staying silent.
My voice has never been riant –
My blood is too defiant.
Try me. Try and challenge this bitter story
But you won’t make it taste more compliant.
-JW
Today feels different from the rest, you and I both sense the pressure.
These thoughts have never strangled me, I barely grasp the rugged texture.
The newscasters are casting spells, the words – not making any sense.
We hold the ground through unfair rains, we hide it from the violence.
We heed the facts so frantically, we hail them for our innocence.
No empathy fired from the other side though,
Silence building like a picket fence.
I see you through the white and gold, the metal gates keep clanking back.
The less you hear the rawest truths, the more you highlight what we lack.
What is the answer to your prayers? What is your plan for standing down?!
Let’s hope our chants aren’t distracting, please don’t be bothered while some drown.
…But there’s no shame in being proud for doubting wrongly taken crowns.
Don’t smile when burning the dictionary pages
To turn the word “voice” strictly into a noun.
-JW
After laughter comes either a storm or a signed peace treaty
Which might silence the rich or barely feed the needy.
Foresight is an artistic delusion, the future is delayed,
The bridge of this song rings true, yet the chorus is out-played.
Maybe we’ll call ourselves the raiders of the point beyond return?
You’re a little messy but it’s flattening my level of concern.
I’m not a room-reader and I don’t promise to keep you safe
But the undesired defects are kicking in, and my thoughts start to chafe.
The childlike sentiments must be cast aside, let’s play it honest –
No chance of surviving through this one if we play it modest.
We must escape even if I refuse to touch your open wounds again
Because my feet are too tired to hear the story about your left side brain.
So let’s ride it out and never speak of speaking, please, I’m done.
Let’s burn down this city, cut the ribbon and finally – just run.
-JW
Where I’m from sorrow is taken as a precautionary pill,
It’s overused to create some sound while the world stays perfectly still.
Where I’m from street names are whispered, never yelled.
The babies are washed in acid and bleach, their shoulders are never held.
Where I’m from fluorescent lights have been forbidden for years
So gather your things – let’s walk to the neon sparks with all of our peers.
Where I’m from laws are not about restoring justice or peace –
They simply drip ink until the culprit is caught so it puts villagers at ease.
Where I’m from blackmail is applied evenly on every soul
But only the ones who run so fast their heels turn red make it out whole.
-JW
This story is only partly true so you will have to imagine the rest.
The re-teller never existed. To you she might seem real…
Or was it all a test?
No, no, I’m quite sure that the narrative is truer than the actual story
And the voice sounds realistic but also too arrogant.
(Has she ever muttered “sorry”?)
To anyone reading this – please don’t jump to conclusions harshly.
If you say that I’m to blame, I will accept it.
At least, partly.
So enjoy the show and take the orchestra home if you can’t sit through.
Because the drums and the violins might hit some chords
Resonating with you,
Too.
***
My head has been bed bound for a decade and counting.
Nothing grows in a ceaseless fire,
It’s a storm of blips. It’s a form of drowning.
The clouds move unsurely through the stickiest nectar.
I imagine this is what death feels like
Because anxiety is my faithful specter.
My limbs are tranquil while the chest goes full Urie
And the focus is stolen from me,
The emptiness is filled with fury.
What about the jury?
Are they still out and about, ignoring the verdict they are going to serve me?
I look around. “In the time of need did they all desert me?”
Helplessness locks my senses, the room turns black. I bow to the unimaginable.
Not the first time someone called my pain unfashionable,
Even easily eradicable.
Yes, my head has been bed bound for a decade and counting.
And yes, I can take another day of drowning.
I can take another head recounting.
But please take away all the shouting.
You’re not understanding what you are doubting –
And I’m simply looking for mounting,
For someone who doesn’t suffocate by shrouding.
-JW
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 