Crazy Real

the official blog of author and poet Jennifer Wilson


Shattered bones
Slice through skin


Pain like fire
loud cries for help
burning hot tears
that no one
would think to hide.

Shattered souls
slice through hearts


Pain like fire
silent cries for help
burning hot tears
that no one
would dare to show.

Bones not set
grow twisted and grotesque

Hearts are the same.


There was a place
so small and dark
and faint did light intrude
and though I thought
it all in all
it was but interlude

I had whate’er
my soul could want
and never thought for more
my simple mind
could not conceive
that there was much in store

But then one day
oh how the fear
did grip my naive heart
as everything
began to change
and new things had to start

I cried aloud
for mercy wept
and struggled to be free
yet ever more
did change abound
in vain I sought to flee

Then lo, the light
it grew quite vast
as old things fell away
I found the new
larger than last
and blessed this better way

Where sight and sound
and taste and feel
were so much greater known
that I was glad
to leave behind
the vessel where I’d grown

And someday soon
I hope and pray
things will change yet again
though I may fear
yet will I know
that new life will begin

As here the husk
of old and grey
will lie, abandoned, fled,
so will I rise
with greater view
and leave behind the dead.


She lived tempest-like
with clouds in her eyes
and rain at her heels
and when she passed through,
the debris of his heart
littered the ground
(he said)
things seemed greener
sky scrubbed clean and blue
air fresh and sweet
and so he found himself
caught up in her turbulence
wound round and round her center
from the heady winds she blew
(he thought)
perhaps he was not so unlike her

after all

it takes a special kind of
to chase a storm.

A Call to Arms

hard at work
sweating in kitchens
wielding their sharp knives over
carcasses, carving meat
from sinew and

dragging pain
throughout the days
scrubbing stain-streaked cloths
watching blood soak
into earth and

loud in labor
knuckles whitened
teeth bared, fists clenched
roaring babies out
into the wild

driving tent-
pegs into the skulls
of their enemies, speaking
prophesies, waving
the banners of

not asking nicely
nor expecting invitation
to the table of men anymore
but arriving with swords
and arrayed for


The fox with foot
within a snare
will thrash and cry
til bone lies bare

Then gnaw it off
the limb entwined
limp far and fast
leave it behind

For foxes know
with basal brains
that liberty
means blood and pain

And so it is
that such as I
must chew upon
the hows and whys

This gnawing, though,
brings no relief
the cords, they tighten
to my grief

How cursed am I
to have this head!
This ceaseless
existential dread!

I wish I was
a small brave thing
that wanted naught
of wish or dream

But only cared
for mate and meat
for spring and sun
and burrow sweet

Make me a fox
with legs of three
no more ensnared
forever free.


Beauty in the hollow places
wise and weary
timeworn faces

Echoing with voices cast
lovelorn souls with
questions vast

Pillars we from turning round
looking back on
blackened ground

Beauty in the toughest races
beaten paths and
fruitless chases

Tripping, stumbling, ever last
still we rise and
stagger past

Sometimes lost but always found
in the fury
in the sound

Beauty in the gaping spaces
lunatics and
hopeless cases

Grains of sand all falling fast
heaps of crystals
all amassed

Treasures and debris abound
with the mixture
we are crowned

Beauty in what time erases
finding peace
in endless graces

Lying down no more harassed
by musts and shoulds
demanded, asked

Soul-ship finally run aground
resigned, refined,
at last unbound.


the razor-sharp edge of grief
caresses my pericardium
tracing that fragile membrane
like a whisper
every touch electric
raising goosebumps
along my flesh
and I ask

is this love?

exciting and dangerous
titillating and violent
embracing and manipulative

are they two sides of the same coin or
some alien currency whose exchange rate
I have never grasped?

why do I love these torn, bloody places?

who am I without these various wounds?
who am I without the pain, the fear, the


without them there is nothing but wind and foam and
hollow spaces

a shell
carved of flesh
full of echoes.


I’d like to be an instrument
of tenderness and peace
a simple little daisy that
brings joy to those that grieve

A flower that administers
a taste of hope hereafter
a tiny bud of gracefulness
that mitigates disaster

I’d like to be a small device
that lifts another’s burden
a voice that whispers all is well
when nothing else is certain

If I could live just long enough
to see this mission through
then I would be well satisfied
to watch that dream come true

For each of us is put right here
to do the good we can
and if we’re truly honest now
it’s time that we began.


Am I a fraud?
I am not
to be mad

nor beautiful
to be forgiven

nor famous
to be indulged

Am I a fraud?
I am woman
so perhaps
my uterus is to blame
are the irregularities
of temper
just symptoms of
a depraved heart?

I have seen
the mental hospital
from the inside
more than once
given the papers
sent to therapy
and yet at times
I still wonder

Am I a fraud?


There once was a time
I carried a bag
tied up on a stick
held aloft like a flag

and into this pouch
my heart was compelled
imprisoned by doctrine
and forced there to dwell

I thought it was safer
to keep it secured
within my worldview
so I was assured

a vagrant was I
with bindle-beliefs
traversing the road
ignoring my grief

but then the bag tore
its seams all asunder
and out spilled my heart
with all of its plunder:

the tears left unwept
from failures and blows
the bitter defeats
the anger and woe

the conflict within
that could not be hid
the struggle long-fought
with vigorous id

I long to march on
in dumb innocence
continue to stuff
my nascent conscience

but there lays my heart
and I cannot leave
it foundering here
in dust while I grieve

the night long endures
with no end in sight
and darkness derides
the concept of light

yet there is a whisper
that bids me be strong
portends after all
a spectacular dawn

and so I sit patient
and wait for release
from this vigil beside
my tattered beliefs.

« Older posts

© 2019 Crazy Real

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑