The morning after

Beware the morning after
the future before the storm
the overwhelming anthem
marking the past as Heavens door
ceilings faking inward the fire
burns through night
showering eyes with darkness
breaking unburdened sight
drink the moths of poison
bury the bodies beneath
beware the morning after
the warden of defeat.

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Open the box

Steal the seconds
of her life
drown her hope
and birth her strife
take the eyes
but leave her tongue
she will speak of
what you’ve done.

Between Fassbender and Ansari

Bad dates and mixed signals
can turn bad guys into heroes
when the passion that your into
turns to stun
when the lovin comes from someone
you dream of
and the six pack got your panties in a huff
but then you look up and it’s not what you
dream of
he’s a funny kind of talker
he’s not really that much taller
so the memory that got me in his bed
dead upon the moment I misread
and then a bad date turns to abuse
real quick
a mistake is a mistake
until one gets
a chance to turn the heroes into myths

Missing pages

Taking out another page
words are lost and stories decay
onto something no road clear
the makeshift horse leaves you here
alone in the darkness-unaware
the message ripped out
but the ending is still there
tells of what will happen next
you won’t see another way
to save your neck

Collectively ill

We’ve chosen sides
we love divides
a generation’s worth
of self loathing and hurt
everybody’s just another victim
the game here is that no one
wants to fix them
everybody loves their bitter memories
we cling to a polarized history
and drown ourselves in sorrows
a cynical tomorrow-a future bathed in blood
and tragedy
everybody loves all the mayhem and fun
caused by unnecessary horror
we pretend it’s much worse than before
that even the good should abhor
but we’ve chosen sides
we love to divide
so the lies we believe just bring comfort
don’t want to wake up-just continue to sleep
the world is on fire but our beds are warm
we love choosing sides
and playing victims
because playing at life is entertaining
realizing you’re dying is just aging
and nobody likes wrinkles anyways

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.

Dead name

Hush-don’t say that name
you have lost that person today
they don’t stand here-
we’re not the same.

Please-don’t say that name
it reminds me of my shame
I have grieved much more than you
you could never feel as I do.

Hush-don’t say that name
I lost everything today
you, you’re not the same
you bring up my deepest shame
you have placed me with the blame
I just cannot hear that name.

Please… don’t say that name
please don’t say I look the same
why am I so damn ashamed?
you ask questions to break my frame
literal-the words are violence
say that name it’s dead to my lips.

Hush! Don’t say that name
they have died, but I remain
you will love me just the same
replace them in your memory
with old thoughts of what you see
play along and don’t you grieve
the name is dead, but I’m still me.

I still got you

Never say I didn’t tell you so
everything little thing
that you wanted to know
every last mistake
you never wanted to grow
but you can’t fucking say
I never told you so.
Come to me like I’m your therapist
then you can’t recall the time
that I put in-all my wages paid
in past percents
everything I got was gone by then.
Never, ever tell me I didn’t
tell you so
I saw all your mistakes before
you hit the road
speak my mind, but speaking gets old
when no ones listening
and speaking gets you in trouble
when the truths in sync
no one ever wants a friend
who goes that deep
so now I’m just a ghost
you forget about me
but never, ever, forget just one thing
I know of all your demons and fucked up deeds.