Tag: writing

Momentum: Thoughts From The Most Anxious Of Times

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Pretty please, don’t ever lower you shiny shields.

All your yesterdays will burn your pride in the fields,

They’ll poke your intestines open and cheer,

Even colour their cheeks with bloody smears.

Don’t fall for whatever they’re selling today.

You always have a friend in your own dismay.

For you it’s not really that much of a momentum –

They’re using your story only as an addendum.

Dearest, listen, trust those who constantly crave

And abuse the permissions that their own god gave.

Turn a cold shoulder to those seeking warmth,

Call it “unintended distance” instead of direct harm.

-JW

Mirrors And Marigolds

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You should regret the day you passed me in the misty noon,

Smelling of innocence, humming calmingly yet out of tune.

The bright naivety evaporated so swiftly and too soon –

Your fist trembled the table, ending our latest honeymoon.

You shouldn’t forget the way you pressed me like a mold

Onto your perfectly orderly headlines, colored in bold.

Your vivid fury lit hellish rage in this body, usually cold,

And you smashed the mirror along with my marigolds.

You must forever carry the weight of my gut-wrenching cries,

The kind that’s only heard when someone sinless dies.

Your explosive temper turned my little funerals into white lies,

And with each piece of me disintegrating

You cut me to size.

-JW

Blood On His Collar

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You wear him around your neck like an ancient amulet,

Such a pretty Judas dressed in the costume of a Capulet.

Your left eye twitches when he mentions the name of another

So you shed one more snake skin and make him your lover.

You tighten the chains, you ensure he’s always close,

And you do the laundry only to smell all his clothes –

Just to obsess over a jacket with a hint of my perfume

So you can christen it with fire while your ego fumes.

You crack the emergency glass a bit more each time,

Smearing blood on his collar, thinking it’s a lipstick of mine.

I’m patient – but the moment your grip becomes a noose,

The sensation of your heartbeats fading will erase our truce.

-JW

Undecided

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It’s just another evening of me burying you in bejewelled falsities,

Dragging you down the rockiest paths, dusting you with faux niceties.

My moods swing and dance violently in circles, just like the Saturn rings,

But you’re patiently collecting my poisonous words even if it stings.

Will you stay when I’m needy, will you stay when I forget myself?

I’ve asked my reflection and she’s undecided, begging me to get help.

Yet you keep holding onto the sails when the winds hit our discounted ship,

When the glass flies all over the room, when the rim cuts your lip.

If my mind’s a cave, it’s the darkest one you’ll ever see in real life.

The rocks pierce your skin, you’ve been used to the impact for some time.

You carry me to the bed each evening despite my brain growling loud –

And it’s just another night of my anxieties losing more ground.

-JW

Between The Pileus Clouds Of Her Hometown

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Her auburn hair falls into my eyes, gets tangled up with my lashes –

But only in my sleep, only when I patch up the crimson slashes.

Her curls lay on the pillows and flow on the perfectly white duvet,

A memory I can barely remember, a memory drawn in clay.

The iridescent pileus clouds swim peacefully over her hometown –

I try my best to recall that this place was never our common ground.

We tried to make houses out of cardboard boxes and compulsive lies.

The walls didn’t stand the test of time, they collapsed after our highs.

My pillows have sharp teeth nowadays, they bite me with pure rage –

Yet I still wish on a falling star, beg for the love of my dying mage.

But she doesn’t hear my cries, no, she’s chosen to look away –

My feeble ego convulses, collecting the blowback in an ashtray.

There’s a blizzard outside and an ice storm rising in my very own chest –

Her sweet warmth feels too adjacent… I mustn’t surrender or ever rest.

Maybe the hunger will implode one day, maybe it will survive,

And we’ll keep reaching for one another to prove we’re barely alive.

-JW

Bad Augurs And Worse Tempers

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Scratches on my door, figures by my bed,

White faces in the windowpane.

I know something horrid is approaching.

The stars blink wily as ghouls refrain.

Cuts appear all over my tired body,

They ooze, they burn like wildfire.

But I can’t leave this feeling alone

With its spooks, too dark and dire.

Even paper bruises my skin these days,

I smear the blood all over.

The void behind my forehead widens

Engulfing the room, bursting the controller.

Yet I stay with the rising discomfort,

The curtain is ready for the last show.        

The pure panic in my gaze spirals

As the mirror yells torturously:

“Virago!”

-JW

Three Churches

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The empty city echoes every step I take on the uphill street.

Not a person in sight, only my breath and the lantern heat.

The houses I’m passing are certainly begging for repairs

But saying I love these darker corners of my city any less

Wouldn’t be fair.

I pass three churches during my 6AM run each morning.

(The fourth I don’t count because it looks too boring.)

The first one has two huge towers and a devoted staff,

The third one sells dead flowers and tombstones

With pre-written epitaphs.

The second one hides shyly behind the trees in the park,

It’s so old that the silhouette alone scares me in the dark.

There’s a single light at the entrance, it violently flickers.

Each time I’m spooked by its presence, I swear –

Someone slightly snickers.

But nothing compares to the graveyard fostering ghostly candles.

Most wouldn’t feel at ease passing, even call me a vandal.

Yet I stare at it in the moonlight, I forget about the pain.

It’s only me and the unknown pleasures

Of losing the gathered blame.

The others keep rejecting these gloomy city corners as the paragon.

“Aren’t you afraid, isn’t it scary for you to carry on?”

However, the church bells keep ringing, vestiges call for me.

I’d sell my soul and yours, too,

For another morning of clarity.

-JW

Concrete Gods

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When nobody’s around, I sneak out to the forest to dance.

I greet every critter, I hold it in my trembling hands.

The moonlight pours its salvaging light over my arms,

It tingles my spine, releases all the pressure and harm.

So I waltz to the never-ending music of this greenery,

My bare thumbs touching every inch of the scenery.

The lines in my palms blossom like rare spring flowers

But they fade when the sky releases the sunlight showers.

I return to my shelter, re-entering my life more than sleepless,

Pretending to blend in with those walking around heatless.

When there are people around, I hide my muddy feet,

I secretly cross my fingers when admitting complete defeat.

Each afternoon we all bow to the same concrete gods,

Then go home and unwrap our faces from the phony gauze.

When they all go to sleep, I sneak into the forest to scream.

The soundwaves escaping my lips scorch the chartreuse leaves.

-JW

Why Are All The Clocks Broken?

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The time is dissolving slowly, melting like sugar in lukewarm water,

But the river flowing out of you is spoiled,

It’s saltier than the tears of your father.

The seconds dribble and form symmetrical frost flowers in the meadows –

A handful of daffodils with conspicuous crowns

And a single French rose.

You don’t acknowledge, you’re busy playing with the minutes falling,

They’re drenching you like rain in a hot summer,

You kneel to them as if they’re your calling.

The thirsty always forget to bring more drinking water to the deserts,

They rely on the streams appearing hourly as mirages,

They sweat and bleed through their T-shirts.

So it’s never said out loud that the art of time is rotten to the very core –

The clocks are rigged for the lucky ones,

They run twice as fast for the poor.

With faux unawareness we live on stolen time, on borrowed yesterdays

Which we pile up so overly confident

Until broken clocks set them ablaze.

The time is materializing fast, burning hotter than the Molotov cocktails.

But the fumes coming out of you are gelid,

Colder than a breeze in an icebreaker’s sails.

-JW

The Key To LED Is Blue

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The mauve satin sky has fallen upon my borough

Giving all faces the anonymity of a John Doe.

We’re all in veils, we’re balancing on the rim.

We all move in vain, it’s muted, dull and dim.

The light we consume can be bought in store

And houses in my street have the same iron door.

Each night it seems there’s a stranger in my bed.

The illusion of normalcy is messing with my head.

I could swear – the sun’s made from diodes too.

Some keep chanting, “the key to LED is blue.”

Although it seems likely what’s inside remains real

They did replace my roses with stainless steel.

So I try to look closely at jasmines and maples –

The edges are fastened with invisible staples.

Translucent wires keep forcing me to smile

While my throat’s burning with curses and bile.

My pillow’s filled with pages of charred books,

There’s only normalcy, normalcy

Wherever I look.

-JW