Raging Whore Moans

I lay here like a whore every morning I come to this job. I moan about it in the shower. I moan about it while I skip breakfast. I moan about it during the entire commute. Yet I’m the one who gives a piece of myself away each day while they leave the money on the nightstand. I spread my legs for them willingly so I can fatten up my bank account only to purge it later on a nice mani and pedi to go with my new shoes and fancy car to match my luxury home. I’m whoring my life away for a dream. The American Dream. But what idiot American came up with this nightmare? It wasn’t me. This isn’t my dream; to wake up each day and go to some corporate desk job for ten hours so I can be too exhausted and stressed by the time I leave to enjoy my dream world.

This dream is raping my soul…only it’s not, because I’m giving it away. I spread my legs one last time while you eat me out of everything I have left: my hope, my freedom. May it leave a sour taste in your mouth knowing I have nothing left. There will be no more feasting off my failure. When in reality I failed to fail. I keep succeeding at the same thing, over and over and over, like a headboard beating against the wall, and over again. I succeed at dangling my life from a cage unable to reach reality. I succeed at stripping off my dreams one by one until I stand, naked, swaying to the rhythm of a time clock, unable to see my destiny. That is, if I have one left. Desperate to clothe myself with purpose and only able to grasp rage. Raging at the whore I moan about becoming. Raging at failed dreams. Raging at fulfilled dreams with no complacency. But mostly raging at me. I beg you Lord, unlock this whore house I’ve built and clothe me in robes of righteousness. Purify my life. Freedom God, I’m raging for freedom.