Remember the money on the table, the bloody coins?
I didn’t touch it. Didn’t read the red talking points.
You stared in disbelief, as if I’ve cut you open for good.
You bit down on my fingers for pleasure
Just because you could.
Remember the jam-packed streets and our rendezvous?
It wasn’t a fortuity that I left the room raging blue.
The damage was limited but scarring was there to stay.
“No excuses for you to be insufferable again.
If you weep, I don’t pay.”
And once again – I stay.
-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
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
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 