Journey through the Years

In the night you wait to fall asleep
And your heart beats, beats, beats.
Picking apart everything, over the years
Hasn’t made you a friend of the mirror.
Like fleeting sentences and
Words that will never leave our throats
You are stuck
But you try to find Hope.

“Never give up!“--well at least you tried
You thought nothing was
Worse than saying goodbye
You thought suffocating your face
Would muffle your cry
But you have no Hope.

So now you walk a dead man’s line,
Travel his steps so you feel alive,
Find the distinction in place and time,
And search for some Hope.


The clock ticked past twelve
And she waited on the stairs
Avoiding the sound
She’d been hearing for years.
Her mother’s soft skin, pale but blushed brown,
Hit with his hand
Then a thud and she’s down.

It begins with his bottle
Pulled out of the fridge.
Then a few hours later
It always ends with her face to his fist

She’s tried to save her, to pull her away,
But it always turns into his hand
Meeting her own face.
So she waits on the stairs, by the door
Ready to escape,
But when the whimpering stops
It’s usually safe.

She crawls back into bed, piling books at her door
Knowing she’ll wake if they fall to the floor.
If they fall, then, again,  she’s stuck all alone in her room
With the monster much scarier than one from her book’s lagoon.

Times, Sometimes

He was the type of man that
Preached “You're Welcome,” after sex.
That asked incessantly after the matter,
How good did he make you feel?

He was a man who kept his self consciousness
Masked with a physique of a Spartan warrior and the
Help of a flask, kept at all times between the threads
Of his faded Levi’s jeans.

Had he  stopped to realize
That self assurance had nothing to do with the world,
Only with his own mind,
He would have seen the beauty of the sand
Caressing his toes, the sun warming his
Body after a rainfall.

There were times, sometimes, his grandfather would say,
"Art is just an excuse for people who can’t see the beauty
In each and every moment, they think they need to create the beauty
That already fucking exists. But self consciousness, boy,
That is for narcissists, that is much worse.
That is for a person that thinks about his own existence
Over the world’s."

So he would neatly fold away his emotions
Into a little cube and tuck them
In a small pocket of his brain,
To be sure that they remained secret, and
He saw them, many times, in the form of
White powder, lingering on his nostrils
As the numbness crawled in.

© Jessica Wolcott

Bio:  Jessica is currently a freshman nursing student attending Widener University in suburban Philadelphia. Her real home is in the southern New Jersey right by the beach. She enjoys writing in her free time in order to relieve the constant stress school happens to bring. You can contact Jessica at