Amanda

I wake up in the same place each morning. The same bed. The same walls. The same lousy alarm clock that screeches you into the hell of existence like a symphony of tiny demon babies. It’s all the same.
That should be good. Should be. It’s not, clearly. I wake up wrapped in salmon sheets-not pink. Definitely, not pink. The ceiling obscured by the canopy bed and I just stare. Every morning I wake up in the same place, same bed, and stare at the same obscuring canopy-wondering. A lot of things really, though, mostly the same-why is everything so fucking boring.
I used to have the bad habit of waking up in a different place, with a different person or persons, with everything-different. It’s not a healthy way to live. I tell myself this to interrupt the wonder before it turns wanderlust. Then I itch. I itch and itch and finally I scratch. It’s dangerous to wonder while looking up at the same obscuring canopy every morning.
I get up, my feet instantly hitting slippers. Warm, soft-angelically soft white slippers purchased somewhere and when in a place and time that felt cinematic. Every morning it’s the same. A memory of the perfect ending to a mediocre film. Every morning it’s wondering what got me here.
I grab my robe. It too is soft though cool to bare arms. It’s pink like my comforter everything matches now including my nightgown which is pearl-not white. Like my pillow cases.
I leave the bedroom through double doors. The same double doors that greet me everyday with embellishments meant to match the canopies banisters. Passing through them reminds me, everyday, of motel doors. Always different. Always, even when the same.
I walk down the elaborate staircase which curves toward the bottom though it’s carpeted. The carpet is soft though my feet can’t feel it. I know because once, once my bare back laid on it, everyday I remember as I descend the stairs. The scent of coffee hitting my nostrils always at its bend. I laid bare back on the soft staircase carpet under the same man who set that coffee to brew. At the same time at the same place each morning.
I enter the kitchen wondering where that time went. We were in the same place, the same house with the same stairs and yet something has changed.
I take my mug from the cupboard it’s pearl like my nightgown and I take it to the same place I stand every morning.
I pour my coffee and wonder why everything is so fucking boring. As it pours I hear the boom of music in a faded memory. In a motel, one of too many to remember, and my heart aches. Every morning it’s the same ache the music booms and I hear them shout. They are happy, though many are different-new friends everyday he is familiar and she is the same. We’re getting high then in a different motel the faded memories mix, but I’m never alone in them. It’s never the same place though, some are familiar. It’s never the same guy, but sometimes it’s the one I remember. My cup is full the scent fills my nostrils-the same scent every morning.
I walk back up the staircase on the soft carpet. To the same room I just left wondering why my life isn’t different. I wake up each morning in the same place, in the same bed, to the same coffee alone until evening with the same guy. I wonder as I pass through double doors with the scent of coffee turning to cheap beer and cigarettes a faded memory filling my nostrils. The same faded memory each and every morning.
I sit upon the chaise lounge, salmon-not pink. My heart breaks. The same break each and every morning and I wonder why everything is so fucking boring.
I sip my coffee. My hands shake. This morning is different, but exactly the same. I pull out the baggy from my silk robes pocket. It’s white like my slippers and angelically soft.
I itch and every morning as faded memories scratch my heart breaks. I open the baggy wondering why everything is the same when everything was so different. The music booms as I scoop a small mound from the baggy with a well manicured pinky nail. It’s white like my slippers and angelically soft.
I take a deep breathe as faded memories play. I lift the little white mound on manicured pinky nail pearl-not white. The scent of coffee and white powder fill my nostrils.
I wake up in the same place each and every morning.

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Screaming into the dark

Point the finger
scream into the dark
everyone stands together
but what war is being fought?
Destroy that which is
with no semblance of justice
what good is taking things
what good is taking money
has the monster died
or are more victims up and coming?
have you changed the world
or just hidden more clever demons
we applaud the mob
while not killing off the evils.

Shame complicity

Shaming
we say it’s bad
but
we have to take a stand
know
some things are wrong
yes
some things are wrong
everybody makes choices
but not every choice
makes you strong
some people are not heroes
some victims don’t survive
not every story ends
with justice on your side-
even when your right
you might lose the fight
but heroes do not stop
heroes do not give in
they don’t take the cash
they don’t choose silence
they do not speak up
for fame or financial gain
heroes kill the monsters
so they can no longer prey.

Survivors choice

Survivors are survivors
victims of abuse
it’s nothing to be ashamed of
but still you have to choose
do you stand and speak
or give in to the fear?
Do you really want justice
or just to forget and heal?
Either choice is fine
but only one makes you brave
in another twenty years
will you still feel the same?
Or will you speak for fame
revealing all the monsters
only so you can get paid-
got a book to publish,
got a career to save,
nothing wrong with choices
unless you do not own them
saying you are brave
while others become the victims
you are not a hero
just because you say-
I know who the monster is
but I won’t say the name.
Silence is complicity
even though you’re right
silence is a product of
all you have survived
but choices are what make us
and you did chose to hide
heroes kill the monsters
not take the money over pride
heroes know their dignity
does not have a price.

Between a hero and a coward

Are you brave or just a coward?
I see you run with all that power
flee and leave the rest behind
don’t fight the evil
just take their bribes
everything will be safe in time
as long as you get paid tonight-
you say you feared for your career
feared for everything you hold dear
but you ran away-that much is clear
you took the cash-all silence here.
Are you brave-truly a hero
because all I see
is just a person
you aren’t too blame
for the abuse received but
your silence still is not bravery.

Rose flavored heroine

We don’t kill the monsters
we merely kill ourselves
make the cowards choices
make our beds in hell.
No, we don’t stake the vampires,
we do not shoot the wolves,
we take all of the money
and feed the youth to ghouls.
We don’t kill the demons
we pray to them instead
pretend our power comes
from silence bought by them-
those that have abused us
those that which have fed
on all the other victims
we’ve given them instead
no, we do not kill the beasts
we bend to them and then
pretend that we are heroes
for living off the dead.

Let me show you

Let me show you how it’s done
sit down quick we have begun
I don’t lecture I merely teach
preach the right way-you must believe
I won’t break down-not again.
You should prepare to read my lips
I am the one that you should dread.
Let me show you how to live
you will reap what you give.
Pretend to be a saint
but hold no truth
you will suffer, you will lose.