Like you use to

I’ve been waiting here for you
don’t know who else to belong to
do I love you yes I do
I’ve been waiting days for you
waiting for you to walk in the door
sing to me darling sing once more
keep me on pins needles and the edge
I’ve been waiting since you’ve been dead
to dream of a moment we’re back in arms
hugging to death remembering charms
I’ve been waiting here so long
life gets tired it keeps moving on
do I love you yes I do
sing to me darling just like you use to

The music playing

I’ve got the music on
I’m singing old old songs
I’m smoking cigarettes
drinking black coffee and crying
I’ve got that old time feeling
the blues they say
I’ve got that melancholy
and a sad refrain
I’ve got the music playing
singing old world songs
I wish I could’ve seen it
oh how the old world calls
I’ve got the music playing
though the records broke
I’ve got the blues I’m singing
sad songs and an old time smoke
I’m drinking black coffee
I pour another cup and sigh
I’m just a sad little state
got the old world on my mind.

The way home

She used to whisper that she understood
like the waves of the ocean knew she would
as every little comfort that tucked her in
she used to believe so strongly
her heart grown colder and wanting
she used to whisper softly
take walks and think of longing
so lost and long ago
the ocean waves they had always known
she’d make her way back home

Taken away

Everything that glitters
glitters when your gone
artificial pleasure
the nature of this song
every pretty moment
every pretty kiss
everything that glitters
flickers before it trips
disguised by bitter longing
and loving memories
the glitter that has blinded
has taken everything
blinded by its light
a beautiful moment
in a kiss
artificial pleasure
has taken away my lips

Lady on the cliff

She waits in white
upon a cliff
sounds of waves
crashing under it
hair as black as
heart is dead
her lover gone
and liver spent
she waits for him
but it is said
the one she loves
did not cross oceans

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.