Tag: The Beautiful And Unwell

A Beautiful Day To Die

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The sun is playing on bare skinned people passing by, not reaching me yet.

I’ve become a mirror to the world’s worst battle cries, the symbol of debt.

Would be a lie if I claimed I’d rather touch the rays instead of reflecting –

It’s a beautiful day to die from overdosing on medals I’ve been collecting.

Never thought of myself as a warrior, cleaning up foreign messes, not my own,

Making sure as a foreigner I hide my own truths and give my illness a loan

To take out later, when I’m crumbling in the concrete walls of another city

Where windows are larger than life and privacy means you must be guilty.

All these second-hand “thank you” notes I’ve gathered now don’t mean a thing –

Loneliness carries itself just royally well until it finds a place to sting.

Then you’re down with the venom tearing your vision apart, installing mirrors.

You feel like it’s a beautiful day to die if you get to see the world any clearer.

But that was then – I continue to walk the streets with my growing reflective hopes.

I’ve become the mirror to the world’s battle cries but I’m no longer a ghost.

***

I shut the neon gates to my city.

The rebels are gone with the winds of fog colored in pity.

The small picture’s gone, replaced with only this memory

Of how I treated the streets I created as an enemy

I know I can’t reach my younger self but I’ll try through this revery:

Love, I hope you remember me.

-JW

New Chapter

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Photo by Paul Kerby Genil from Pexels

Blood on my trembling fingers from yesterday’s out of control rendezvous.

I don’t think I’m ready to ask questions with answers dipped in your blues.

It’s true, wanting everything from my past to be torn apart isn’t a solution

But I’ve waited too long for a happy ending, not another mediocre conclusion.

“I love you so much it pains me,” I say, looking at a gold framed mirror.

Bought this one myself in a vintage shop made for people-shaped errors.

Painted my walls white and took the hoarded neon to another graveyard –

I spilled my paint going there, then accidentally became the vanguard

Of some new, braver movement… Sorry, I can’t really recall their name.

They told me tales about the fame monster but I won’t listen to reason

When it comes to my shame.

So there’s still blood on my hands and I should admit – it’s probably mine.

Cutting your heart open becomes a hobby if you start practising when you’re nine.

Bleeding yourself dry daily for other’s mistakes feels OK, you’ve gotten better.

But I’m still unable to remember a time where I looked at myself

And didn’t feel dry or bitter.

May this mirror I’ve bought myself serve as a reminder of how I’m here, breathing,

And if I happen to bleed for my own life again, that’s because I’m leaning on myself,

The one person honest enough to drop her habit of being deceiving,

Instead of running for the hills, walking the walk through the delayed grieving.

May this mirror be the first thing to remind myself I am not perfect at it,

But I am healing.

-JW

A Dystopian Novel

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Photo by Hebert Santos from Pexels

There are these full circle moments when the drums stop ringing in your ears,

The sound paralyzing your every move turns into a river washing out your fears.

But you can’t stand up, can’t raise a hand to greet the overwhelming sun

And the mountains seem golden, yet you’re careful about letting go of the gun.

There are moments where you reflect on deflecting your whole past and present,

The bass is penetrating your heart muscles because trauma isn’t pleasant.

Skull pulsating harder than a carnival stage filled with betrayed manic rebels.

Anxiety-driven you rush through the memories, climb brave through the levels.

There are moments where killing your mind with noise becomes a simple mischief,

But you pull that trick way too often so it grows into a cult, you bury it like a christian.

You might need a decade to ditch the part where attacking your senses feels fine.

The longer you ignore that pain, the more likely you’ll turn it into a dystopian novel

with rhymes,

like mine.

-JW

When I Was Younger

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Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger from Pexels

And I look at my layered cotton candy sky every evening

Blaming my father for distorted love that keeps bleeding.

I’m doing alright, more than I was promised where I grew up

In the town where no one’s allowed to stand up

For themselves or for anything somewhat decent…

I can’t shake the spite because it feels so recent,

Because their cotton candy sky’s inherited and not really earned.

Where I come from, each cry for love remains spurned.

The hate is a currency there – but so is the hidden insecurities.

Dirty beings blowing mud on the clouds, judging all purities.

And I look at my pink sky because I clawed my way up here,

Away… but the town behind refuses to fade out and disappear.

I know that my head on a stick will not suffice their hunger.

Wish I had known when I was still hopeful, when I was younger.

-JW

My Dear Pain

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Photo by Engin Akyurt from Pexels

Extremely sad pictures are painted on my reflective walls today, it’s alluring.

My lungs trembling to the melodies of The Cure, yet – they aren’t really curing.

Every pore becomes an open flesh wound when I’m stuck in this hamster wheel.

“Go rob yourself of all joy and pride, go spread lies, sing off tune and steal.”

My brain is the enemy I knew I’d never win but I always cherished so dearly –

If I go down with its flawed narrations, you’re also going. Can you hear me?!

Do I even mean what I’m yelling when I put up the fight and try to survive this?

Not a day has gone by without me wishing I could take a bullet through my iris.

But that’s not true, you must know I’m not a reliable narrator by this point. Do you?

I’m the sad pictures on my own walls, yet – I’m also the vivid daydreams you knew

Back when we were a little less depressed and I wasn’t smothering my insanities…

So let’s go to war, my dear pain, throw a ceremony of prayer to help your own christianities

With my godless profanities.

-JW

Picture Perfect

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Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy from Pexels

Shattering circus mirrors on grey streets, my boots punching straight through them.

Setting fire to another pastel advert asking “us ladies to starve and lose ‘em”.

You cannot blow up the crooked system telling you how to be happy dying

But you can bite its head off trying to hear how the filtered buzz is lying.

The feathers of poorly made starlet costumes flying off as I tear them open –

If we’re exploring what beauty means, let’s also show the parts that are broken.

There are no friends in ecosystems built out of denying every human emotion,

Made out of caricatures of people who only stay young by staying in motion.

“Another pound gained means another rumour that her husband doesn’t love her –

We didn’t write the rules, it’s her fault she kept thriving when others ran for cover.”

What is this obsession of being camera ready and acting the part as well?

Your life is not up for an Oscar so stop reaching for the poisoned wishing well,

And your lungs are designed to scream not to swallow every shallow remark –

Lovely, please, dig a hole in the dust to bury the voice that haunts you

And leave the grave unmarked.

-JW

Growing Pains

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Photo by Engin Akyurt from Pexels

I keep picking apart every challenging moment I’ve felt

And I turn it into another foolish misdeed on the shelf.

A sinner, a torturer, a victim of my own darkness, a fraud.

I refuse to call myself anything less than somebody flawed.

But I want to grow up, I just don’t need to grow old today.

The harder I try to play it safe, the harder my parents pray.

I’m not a bad person, I’m only the worst with myself.

Can you even see how hard I’m trying to reach out for help?

Yet – my ego’s rotten and I’d rather make it tragic.

My brain’s a one way road to sadness, you can call it magic yet ratchet.

-JW

Assigned Loneliness

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Too much time spent with lovers but without anybody to love.

Whenever it gets personal, I flip the script and burn the whole show.

Cannot allow anyone to know, anyone to find out the withins

So I watch the world from side lines while it practises spins.

No one wins in a game of two where the first one is cheating

While the other turns a blind eye to third parties bleeding.

And maybe I’ve never been good at business or tango, or chess

Hence I keep looking for insignificant loners to undress.

…Perhaps it’s the sense of running out of time that drives me

To choose quick battles instead of picking up wars to win wisely.

But loneliness cannot be assigned by others, it has to be felt –

As long as I’m feeling nothing, I’ll play with what has been dealt.

-JW

Stolen Mirrors

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Photo by Pedro Figueras from Pexels

White bedroom walls, all matte,

not a reflection in sight.

She was willing to die for that,

not for being right.

Sun turned up to the brightest,

not some neon light.

The words in her head – not biased,

not always ready to bite.

No mirrors testing her worth,

not a noise in the realm.

Her body wasn’t the hearth

and she took over the helm.

“Rest, dear, you’ve been hurt,”

She whispered, still overwhelmed.

“Years spent in standards so absurd,

Might as well live with just walls

And skip replacing the doorbell,

Even if you’re compelled.”

She has taken over the helm.

-JW

A Single Round

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Photo by Engin Akyurt from Pexels

They kept asking me to apologize for the pain that they inflicted,

My back against the floor and my palms still only half infected.

The concrete pushing against my shoulders as I sit on the ground.

“Agreed. Take your shots at me but you each get a single round.”

Their terms of service didn’t understand the notion to simply fire

But I obsess over little things and small people no one admires

So I took their ignorance guns right to my ears, right to my heart.

The empty bullets stuck to my skin and punctured it like a dart.

They begged me to say I’m sorry for shooting myself with sorrow

When I was the one in the corner, still willing to face tomorrow.

The trauma keeps crushing my temples as I sit on the ground.

“Agreed. Shoot your bullets again but you each get a single round.”

-JW