Tag: trauma

The Lock

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These walls echo my downfalls but stay deadly silent about the glistening highs.

One could argue I built them for myself, god, don’t re-examine my alibis.

Each morning the dread keeps forgetting itself – and maybe there’s even a chance

For me to escape what I’ve created, lose the lead sprinklers I got for hands.

But I can’t get past the chain link fences, like a spell they push me back inside.

The hellhounds I welcomed in this home know all the escape plans I lazily hide.

The floor spins on its axis, it melts away until there’s nothing for me to land on.

There’s wind on my skin but I can’t see the door, it’s covered by a phantom.

I keep hearing them say – you have to break these abysmal loops on your own,

And, god, I know I’ve built them myself, but would it kill you to pick up the phone?

Even if it’s a beast of my own creation, do I have to break out of its head alone?

Because I swear there’s one unknown lock on my gate,

Cast in envy green stone.

-JW

Red

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The Red is piercing my skin and pushing furious tentacles out of my neck.

With every heartbeat the scene turns brighter, I’m caught in a self-made wreck.

The green contact lenses I’m wearing can’t hide the pressure raising within,

I know my eyes glow in sultry carmine, I know I’ve lost my linchpin.

The nails click on surfaces, they dig into walls, they pull out my own hair.

The Red comes in waves and it leaves me crying for a chance to fight fair.

But they own my guts and let me sleep in them, too, just for another payday –

So I snap at myself for reasons unknown, convinced that I’m their prey.

The Red punishes me, it holds my nerve ends under deadly avalanches.

Fixing the damage feels like welding together burned and broken branches.

And soon enough every part of my torso is covered in a crown of flames

So I let the yet untamed Red out to play with its creators,

The instigators of my deep shame.

-JW

Saved?

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Slender figures rushing the foggy streets in agony,

Struggling to pay for the rent of their own minds,

An irony, a travesty.

I run with them past armed guards and loopy culverts.

The dogs are onto us the second we hit the road.

They want to make us the culprits.

We see purple cloaks rolling down the streets like carpets,

Altering the sights of the city, choking out those

That grew defiant.

Rays of sun playing on sharpened edges of machetes.

The weak are taken back to their rooms with menace,

Others become enlistees.

The fog is entering my flaring nostrils, it’s spreading.

My legs become numb to the pain of their teeth.

I fall on the floor, staining the bedding.

-JW

Ana

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Hands on my body, her hands are getting me drunk.

It was hard to say no so I jumped off, I sunk.

All the flags are rosy if your eyes are pumped with blood,

If your “no” causes storms and a biblical flood.

Hands on my hands, her palms get me so damn angry.

The fangs pierce my neck and she keeps the pills handy –

Just in case I try to outrun my faith and leave her be

So she chants “it’s you and me, baby” like a prophecy.

Hands on my throat, her hands are taking my breath.

I’m ready to submit while she quotes Macbeth.

All the flags are red but she’ll turn you colour-blind

And you’ll only see the best your future can offer

When it’s already behind.

-JW

Purposeful Violence

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My friends heard you know how frisky I get when I stand by a man like you.

There you are, punching holes in my paper walls after learning that we’re through.

No call backs though, no carton airplanes flying off this cliff I’ve put you on.

Six long months of miseries and resolving your twisted mind – do you even know

How much it hurts? I bet you don’t.

Never have I admitted to liking this game you’re lobbying but I read the rules –

A punch to the gut is a sign of love, a stab in the back is love times two.

Some days I wonder how I got that far, tearing myself up for a taste of passion –

The closest feeling to being cut in pieces with a hot knife and distributed

To everyone I hate in rations.

“Never trust a perfect person,” they say, but then ask you to stop being picky.

Apparently romance is only great if the ice is thin and each step is tricky.

Let’s be truthful – it’s all about how it seems, not how it feels, haven’t you noticed?

The worse your mental state gets with each fight, the more they cheer your passion

And give violence a purpose.

-JW

Mint

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Peppermint leaves melting ice cubes with their vital scent.

I’m crushing your heart being nice while you’re smoking a Kent.

The window is calling my skeleton nightly, like it’s for rent.

“Take a step back, friend, and use one more day to make amends.”

The cold water is squeaking my name and I must yell back.

Listened to seven records today, ditched the blame and finished the track.

Still – I can’t sleep, the pain my brain vomits paints it all black

But I promised to stay. Demons entered my soul. What a heart attack…

Does everyone else feel this haunted just for breathing aloud?

Is it a split between those who I trust and us, stormy clouds?

I’d help every stranger I meet, if my mind said that it’s allowed.

My words can’t melt you away but they can circle and crowd

Until I’m up that hill, ditching your cigarette smell and my doubt.

I’ll get to the promised land first. I’ll get to the thought drought.

-JW

Almost Freezing

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Killing my mind every evening, holding it back from the green light.

The current hits it with pleading but I won’t budge or put up a fight.

My fists are by my side if I ever need a savior for my tongue’s messes.

While everyone’s running in circles, the generals are launching stresses.

It’s too risky to reach my arm out for that green flame in these times.

But what if I don’t and it’s over, there’s no substance in between these lines?

Ah! The sweat dripping down my back are almost freezing as I plan the escape.

Three years later I’ll either be dead or in a desperate need of the brakes.

Give me a break. Put a pause on this and rewind in a more peaceful decade.

Decadence is slipping through their fists but the damages are prepaid.

So I keep on slaughtering my brain at every crooked turn, at every twist.

To cut these demons out of my dysmorphic body I might need an oculist.

-JW

Bloodline

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And my bloodline charged me with arson

Even though I simply lit one spark.

They tried me for treason – no particular reason,

They didn’t want me to leave a mark.

“Let the witches burn, don’t fight it,” I say,

“Let them scream, let’s imagine it’s all realer than real.”

I embrace how they turn the narrative to betray.

One can boil blood but can’t melt steel.

With this low gaslight temperature

They’re ruining the play.

I’m not here to stay.

-JW

Leaving Ante: Part V

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Healing

We’re building a corporation from scratch – some luck and eighty-seven guns.

I’m calling you my co-conspirator when they find out so you don’t even run.

Zero factories around the globe, no employees good enough to hire –

Yet I’m convinced you’re the one ruining this, you started the tax haven fire.

The upholstery business is a nice shell for your mother’s inaudible cries.

It must’ve been Linklater who taught you how to be fine when the time flies.

My feet are sore from carrying the boxes of liquid guilt into the basement –

But I don’t mind, the art you keep and treasure was begging for defacement.

Now the flames are eating up the framework of the company without any shame.

Perhaps the next business we build will take less gasoline to stay in the game.

-JW

Leaving Ante: Part III

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Trauma

How do you embrace the darkness, the fog lingering in your thoughts?

The guides have dropped dead and my mind is haunted, covered in moths,

So I’m praying to hills, I want to get past this mentor-less journey alive

But the wheels are turning to the uncharted territory, pulsating cyanide.

How to forget the grave they made me dig for myself, scarring me to agony?!

Yet – the actions are excusable because only the young and terrified will write a symphony,

A melody submissive enough for their listening pleasure, a hymn for the masses.

My shoulders still ache but I never sung the lullaby,

The one veiling plastic and hourglasses.

And how do you know there’s another side to the endless, smoke filled path I’m balking?

I’ve been penniless and dull, however, never have I felt like sleepwalking.

The dust is sitting still in the unforeseeable, contaminated air I’m chasing.

I know the fog is a part of the ride, perhaps – even the seatbelt, but really…

How do I embrace it when it’s easier to forever erase it?

-JW