Credit

I think I may have touched this
with my brilliant mind
I think I gave you something
yes something that is mine
I think you owe me money
credit and my due
everything I’ve touched
I’ve given myself too
I think I may have touched this
I remember well
that I did something here
and I want to be able to tell
tell my friends and family
that I did something
I think I am owed credit
so give it to me please
I think I may have touched this
think I may have done
something worth noting
something I have known

Begging me

Begging me to stop now
bringing me to tears
I drink the words I like best
I drown myself in mirrors
reflection of what might have been
a better story to tell
I can give you exciting dreams
but I don’t think I should
begging me to stop now
yelling at myself
want to stop the lying
stop dreaming of the sound
the words they get me drunk off
everything I’ve said
I can make them believe
anything I want
bringing me to tears
bringing me too much
begging me to stop now
I drown myself in mirrors
I drink way too many words
I can tell you stories
change the entire world

The characters

The characters
they get real quiet
don’t know much
I’m undecided
can’t pick up the pen
I’m so divided
on what I should do
and what I want
wish I could
just blow it off
but the characters
they drive the plot
manipulate
through undo silence
threaten with
forgetful violence
the kind that kills
like an eraser
threatens to die
or forget the players
end the story
without an ending
they get real quiet
and they don’t grow
the story ends
without a show

When the picture fades

Look, look here
we’ve got a problem
I fear
you’ve sung the wrong song
once again
now it’s over
now you’re dead.
Can you see it?
Is it real?
Do you know how
this time you’ll heal
without the breaking
or sick nuance
this time you’ll see it
you won’t get off.
Look, look here it comes again
the lies you told
the things you meant
yes, I have broken once again
the second story
comes to this end.

In the woods

Then the sadness comes
it lives between your skin
soft layers let it in
let it drink from blood so red
as lips that live again
apples paint them then
the sin comes under nails
youth will sell this tale
of fear that only forms
from growth and well earned
sores, the bruises sold
and worn.

The basics

“Seriously boy, tell me, tell me what you thought was going to happen-you think it was gonna be all happiness and angel wings? That’s not how it works kid. Flesh and blood or not it never works out that way.”
Marty’s shaking his head wrapping his towel about his waste, the kids slow, but Marty knows he’s been through a lot. Still no bullshit.
“We don’t mix kid. For a reason. They’re up there for a reason-we’re there for a reason,” slapping the kids shoulder, he knows it stings, out of skin, everything hurts, “see the pattern?“
He sucks in air the slap burning through his body, but physical pain the kids made peace with
“Why-it was so good, she was, why her? I’m here why-”
Marty slaps him again old timers have no patience for feigned humanity.
“Kid, how was it gonna work? She’s a fucking angel, you’re a demon, come on-give me a break,” they enter the steam room, “you kids never listen and then this happens and you ask why me? Like you’re special-like you’re human. They pity us and we covet them. That’s how it works, but yeah you spend too many summers top side and suddenly-”
“You saying I didn’t love her? Is that what you’re saying?” the kids all fire, but a bleeding heart delusion is hard to let go of, “is that-”
“Sit down no need to waste a steam,” the kid sits. Marty has no patience, “That’s exactly what I’m saying, and she doesn’t love-”
Cupping head in hands he’s trying to contain himself, “Don’t say it, don’t you say it Marty!” he growls wondering why it hurts so much, pain dripping from his flesh.
“Alright kid, alright but it’s true-it can’t happen. We aren’t made for that, like I said we covet them, coveting isn’t love kid no matter how good it feels to hold. We ain’t human, you might drive fancy cars and sleep with mortal broads, hell you can fuck a fairy you ain’t ever going to meet the queen. You getting this? Any of it sinking in?“ he doesn’t want to be harsh, but he does, and it’s the truth so for Marty it’s a win win.
“It felt real, Marty, real. Everything else-”
“Wasn’t an angel. Wake up kid, angels, demons-why is this complicated?“ the beginnings of eternity is wrought with inflated self worth, “You kids, you always forget the basics. It’s nature, our nature to want what has been lost, a moment with an angel, it’s the closest a sorry sap like you will get to the gates. The Morning Star lost us grace, kiss of an angel.”
His eyes glaze over he’s still wearing his face, the look of pure desire, the human hunger not lust.
“Kid, how do you think fallen angels are made? You think it’s pretty? You got lucky. She went back to the fold, a little longer, one of you would’a changed. You think of that? That beautiful seraphim falling, falling all the way down, further than you know, further than I know, all that grace burning-in horrible fire, kid you got lucky,” he stops himself as the steam begins to paint the scene, torment always visible.
The kids shaking, he’s watching the show.
“Why? Why-”
“Don’t get worked up. It’s simple. They become corrupted, they turn their backs, hell sometimes they absolve us-that’s a real bitch. They basically damn themselves, never falling, but never rising again and the last thing they see of you? The embrace of the divine. That’s rare though, so much easier to fall.”
Marty looks to the kid, who’s still watching the steam it’s easy to see the more that he watches, the better it feels. The kids got contempt now.
“You’re gonna be fine, kid, you’re gonna be fine.”
Smiling the kid leans back hands behind his head.
“So what you’re telling me Marty, is that bitch could’ve stayed with me?”
The kid’s gonna be just fine.

The shallows

Tainted poison lost in love
drunk off what was once to come
a dream, a story, a fantasy
something beautiful though shallow
and weak
cannot touch what isn’t there
turn the mirrors into stares
climb to places far to fall
build what once was tall and strong
shallow moments once in bed
real life awaits you in its stead.

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.