Tag: political poetry

Iron Boots

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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

Whatever Rhymes

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We’re all raised with these naïve ideas of our identities but we don’t know,

We sing along to whatever rhymes and when it doesn’t, we amplify the audio.

“You’re not the bad day in your story, you’re not even the narrator.

You’re neither the background noise nor the all-knowing, sad traitor.”

This is how we’re guided through earlier years, believing it’s all there is –

Why wouldn’t it be, if it makes so much sense and makes our lives muy feliz?

The faster we grow, the harder it gets to find truth in those poorly written tales,

And with every piece of faith we breathe in, there are seven parts of us that exhale.

“You’re not the worst day in your story, you’re not even the almighty narrator.

You’re neither the background cacophony, don’t be a goddamn traitor!”

The more they repeat, the quicker you reason your way out of their crossroads,

And once the spell’s broken, the princes turn back into the ancient swamp toads.

But don’t be ashamed or worried – we’re all raised on these old world remedies.

We’re safe as long as it seems to a passerby that we’re still on our knees.

-JW

Drunk on My Silence

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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

Chanting At Picket Fences

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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

Vault

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I’m willing to take the risk and sneak into the vault again.

You asked me to bring another shadow so I’m giving up the oxygen,

Putting on the rose armor, tying my laces, picking out rebellious thorns,

Wearing the faux leather helmet and imagining it has three horns.

I’m scared for my life to take the journey, to rip out another page,

To bring it back for others to read, then burn…

As if manuscripts really aged.

You know better than that, no unholy texts needed to rip me apart

But sometimes in order to receive your hits, I must work incredibly smart.

So I’m tightening the screws in my jaw, preparing the camouflage –

This time I have confidence that even the darkest caves won’t dare to sabotage.

No matter how many times I promise I won’t dig up the raising heart,

I’m always willing to sneak down one more time…

As if painful sacrifice really lived in this art.

-JW

Partner In Crime

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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

Safer

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All the patience has drained, only sharp needles left in the sink.

I’m stitching my lips together, sipping blood like an unholy drink,

But the phantom thread is vanishing in my skin, leaving no marks.

I’m quoting Isaiah, howling in tongues, trying to drown the dark.

You can call my heart a grave robber but don’t dare to call it unfaithful.

The holy places I dug up left my mouth dry and heart – hateful.

Three ancient ghosts are screaming my real name over forests, so loud…

I hoped five inches of sand was enough to mask my past, safe and sound.

-JW

The Forbidden Years

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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

Shadow Play

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“I would die for you” is an easy thing to say

When you lose the will to do so every other day

Because instead of pessimism you want your life to be a cabaret.

Anyway…

The other morning my brother claimed there’s no reason to pray.

“Skip it. Douse the guilt at the bottom of another ashtray.”

It blew my mind back then. But the world spins too fast

And now I may.

Am I waiting for permission? Am I begging for a leeway?

People will grieve someone who’s seeing red

But won’t pity anyone who recognizes the grey.

I would still die for a sinner, but which one of us is it?

Difficult to say.

Let’s pretend nothing was said during this shadow play.

-JW

Dead Flowers

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Electric sounds blasting through the floral patterned wallpaper.

The sound of seven hells bursting open leaves my lungs as a vapor.

Oh, go along, nothing to see here, simply red and yellow ichor exploding –

Yet the mirage above the mountaintops is rapidly imploding.

Can’t find the light switch, perhaps it has finally evaporated.

Perhaps I’m breathing in its suicide, and my chest feels weighted.

The ceiling is leaking holographic liquids into my tired hips.

Please wake me up once it’s all clear and the curve finally dips.

-JW