Tag: political poetry

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I throw myself at every blade I happen to encounter,

Hoping that I will not bleed if I do not falter.

These steels and irons you all carry have sharp points.

I am not the fragile kind, but cracks are spreading through my joints.

Who are you to judge if you are carrying a weapon?

My heart is clear, I never watch where I am stepping.

You and your shiny metal toys keep my throat aching,

And the city echoes that I never really needed saving.

Still, I approach each pointed sword like a dying flower

While you all chant, saying that the light must be devoured.

I do not pity you, but I feel sorry for the things you break.

One step closer and I will unleash this red hurricane.

-Jackie

Childish Fears

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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

Some Grace

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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

Shiny Enough

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Sore gashes stitching themselves together

Under full moon, through freezing weather.

Some still fear the threads and needles

So they fall on the ground,

Pretending they’re feeble.

Shoes glued to the asphalt, nowhere to go,

Each wrongful movement makes you glow

And once you’re shiny enough to see

They’ll include you

In the next killing spree.

Silver liquids poured into scarlet eyes

Until the palest lips loudly apologize.

But those who don’t seem to ever learn

End up protesting

In an unlocatable urn.

-JW

Careful What You Swear By

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If you promise a pound of flesh, you must deliver.

If you promise two, you must also give away the liver.

Even when you do not recall a blood oath made,

You must pull yourself into pieces

In the spirit of fair trade.

When the devil comes to collect your debts again,

Tell it to go and bleed dry your best friends instead.

To survive, you must really focus on existing

And you cannot do that with pride

Or morals in your system.

After all that has been done, you should remember –

One day you will not be able to blame your bad temper

For wilfully slipping deeper into the machine.

But you cannot admit it

So you swear by the silver screen.

-JW

Fake Funny

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All they do is talk about fake happiness and how it kills the heart.

Are we still uncomfortable to hear that “fake funny” is the superior art?

The joke you let slide about your friend or a rude remark masked as “preference”…

And genuinely – all the funny remarks you make to avoid someone

Pointing out a painful existence.

Sometimes a laughing matter can be turned into a glass container

Hence you keep bottling up your emotions for the sake of a traitor –

Yet your brain will turn to mush to make it all sound like a choking hazard.

So many ears and eyes open to change of pace – but their truths

Remain stiff and plastered.

Another sarcastic comment underneath a discussion about double standards

Or how we’re going backwards too often.

But it’s not facts, it’s just the lack of manners.

The funnier the joke about these crowds, the pain, yourself, your own suffering,

The less you have to worry that anyone will start bothering

With questions that will cause stuttering.

Therefore, you hold onto the laughing matter instead of facing your lesions,

And people will judge you for the consequences, not for the reasons

Because you were the regent,

Not the victim, as per they trends from last seasons.

-JW

The Pain Man Sings

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The smoke coming out the arena in old town square is never harmless.

Chanting voices in the airwaves sound so sharp, they’re charmless.

I step forward, one with the crowds, dancing to the sound of sirens.

All we’ve ever known here is abuse so we enjoy the violence.

Amplifiers know we hear them, we just don’t listen with our souls.

Their five year plan was to ruin us, and they’ve been scoring every goal.

Cellular devices all over the city lose power when the Pain Man sings.

If you don’t denounce “truth to power”, he will kiss you with blue rings.

As we approach the thick smoke, people are torn out of the groups.

I look around only to see they’re dragged by our own, not the troops.

The arena is filled with bright objects they took when we were harmless.

When we’re pushed back in our rooms I notice – the sky has gone starless.

-JW

“Hard To Work With”

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Always threatened to meet my maker if I disobey –

If my smile isn’t wide enough, I have to pay.

If my sleeves are too short, I become the prey.

The world must be someone else’s oyster because to me

It’s another circle in a groundhog day.

Always scared to be left scarred or for the dead –

If I ever talk back, they might crush my head.

If I have some pride, they call me featherbed.

But they can’t stop, I need to be taught a lesson

No matter how much I’ve already bled.

Always scrutinized for not being cautious all the way –

If you get annoyed by my attitude, I don’t get a say.

If you think I’m pretty, I must keep your affection at bay.

And I pray, and I pray, and I pray that there comes a time

Where my experience is not underplayed

So I don’t have to put “hard to work with” on my resume.

-JW

Father’s Day

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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

Tightly Sealed Freedom

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The three musketeers of the end of all things are coming to our town.

The fake sun is trembling and neon is shining through a worn-out frown.

Apathetic noon showers my neck with kisses it doesn’t really mean

And I can’t remember how I lost my lustful self and turned into a fiend.

The target on my back is turning redder each day, getting lighter by minute.

Once it gets as big as the Ritz, you’ll see how Fitzgerald is going to spin it.

I embrace the last days of this tightly sealed freedom with the force of a madman.

Not packing much for the departure as you can never be ready for badlands.

Scoria and erosion reaching for my pound of flesh, is resisting even an option?

I’m dreaming about running but doom might be the answer for this corruption.

“No, don’t listen,” I hear someone whimpering right beneath my bleeding helix.

The three musketeers are approaching in distance and I sigh.

“Let’s give this place another shot but not lend it any credence.”

-JW