When the dead could speak

In the end it’s history
rewrite what you can
make your life a hero’s tale
make yourself seem grand
grander still you will become
break the records, steal the sum
buy the moonlight for your bride
rewrite what you might not like
all the darkness, all the night
erase the times you fled the sight
in the end it’s all history
we rewrite what we can
change the narrative we read
burn the pages that we can’t
make yourself the savior here
even though you ran
still you breath while others don’t
giving you the pen.

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Answers of the echos

Rosary beads falling from my hands
and everything seems pale again
you ask questions-don’t want the answers
you want change but it’s not worth the effort
everything is falling down
breaking it of faith
you fall down the rabbit hole
you’re losing it today
become quite tall, then small again-
you’ll be who you were never that is
you aren’t you, you’ve become
the one falling down
the one unloved
foolish are the things that we do
break apart the number
it’s how we move
forget about the beads
don’t remember to pray
you don’t really want the answers anyway

Into the twilight

Walk with me in the darkness
through the trees and in the fog
walk with me under moonlight
notice all the stars that fall
leaving remnants of plastic
decorating blackest skies
walk with me into the fire
cold flame burns my soul alive
everything you can remember
you forget before the break
as the sun does show it surface
you will not escape this fate

merry-go-round

Round and round and round we go
the music traps,the mirrors show
the faces beyond that grace bestowed
the truth behind the mask you bemoan
everything you ought to be
everything your purpose bleeds
round and round and round you’ll see
everything that’s meant to be
everything that’s out of reach
the music traps, the mirrors show
the nightmare kept-you’ve no control
Merry-go-round and round and round
it never stops
you can’t come down.

whispers

I guess it’s nothing
nothing but the bottom
the bottom of the hole we dug
given up-have we begun?
I don’t have the answer yet
but I will smile
and I will forget
then it comes-another day
everything’s fine-I am okay.

Runner

It’s not that I don’t matter
it’s rather ever after
the simple things we do
not enough of you
everything is twisted
still they manage to miss it
cancer in remission
still you abuse the system
crush those drugs for honey
the world never saw you coming
you just kept on running
look at where you are now.

Mirror of what came before

It’s the same
and yet
yet so completely
different
not again
but similar
still leaves my mind
searching for words
now
now that everything
is different
but all the same
old wounds
do not forget
the pain all in my skin
memory of flesh
but then
this time
it’s completely different
like night and day
but still we miss
everything
we want to forget
memories
under our skin
finger nails
and on our neck
makes the differences
seem
nonexistent.

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.

I wore pants to church

I remember the days
when I had to wear a skirt to pray
those jumpers my dismay
but I wore them to school anyway.
I remember the days
confused by what I saw
not even four foot tall
not sold on what I was taught
one day I just woke up
saw it for what it was
and said I’d had enough.
I remember the day
I wore pants to pray
the nuns stopped me in my tracks
but I never once looked back
told them to call my parents
my mother on their side-the merits
of properly dressed females
but my father stood by my details
told him of my discomfort
that I refused injustice
that I would pray in pants
and he told them again my stance.
I remember the days
that I knelt down to pray
God on my shoulder always leading the way.
I remember the days-
Catholic memories
of standing up to nuns
and living comfortably.
I remember the days
only a little girl at play
when I changed the system
never needing permission
just God’s little vixen.