Tag: shame

The Hippodrome

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Photo by zydeaosika from Pexels

In between the most private of moments the camera flashes bring me home.

The curtains I’ve wrapped around myself don’t hide me from the Hippodrome.

But these horses keep dragging the time faster and faster down the streets,

And I’m spinning in frantic circles to find the escape or just an empty seat.

Lights blur my vision as they’re leaking neon on my darkest dancing shoes.

I can’t run away now, the footsteps I leave are sparkling in pinks and blues.

If I survive one more night, then maybe their greed will lose its sizzling heat,

Or maybe it’ll scorch my scars until I bleed dry without missing a beat.

The choice lies down on my neck as all the flashes melt into a single one,

A pulsating array of stars emerge from the horizon, the prize yet to be won.

Between the most public of shunnings, the raindrops bring me back to life.

I let the curtains drop and blind the crowds that once kicked me down

And still took a bite.

-JW

My Shame

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Photo by Maria Orlova from Pexels

I threw my shame from the top of a mountain,

I drowned it in bottles and endless fountains,

And I even abandoned my home to lose it

But there’s no better medicine than facing the music.

I tripped over ledges in some haunted woods,

Lost myself in shine and Old Hollywood.

The shame kept crawling up my trembling spine

And the world laughed like I wasn’t worth a dime.

However, I knew better than letting it consume me,

Than running once again and inventing a new me.

I stopped in my tracks until it chased me down

And for a moment it was my time to drown.

But I can forgive scars that lead me to victory,

The stories of the vanquished don’t go down in history.

So once more I throw my shame from steepest hill –

This one on one battle will end with a kill.

-JW

Seven Feet: Candy’s Monologue

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Photo by ATUL MAURYA from Pexels

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