Muses

I was planted in May to stare at flat water

that reflects skyscrapers, sunsets, boat bows,

and airplane shadows. 

My tears soak up hot weather

and thunderstorm everything inside of me. 

A stranger who looks like what keeps me up at night

wanders into the room, 

without a clue, 

mannerisms that push me back in time. 

Ghosts glide all around me

to celebrate my clemency, 

a shark-infested sea, 

they swim to feast on me. 

I hide behind the shields I draw

to escape the gunfights that I get myself into. 

The entire essence of my soul

weaves in between my fingers so that

my muses, my secrets, 

my melodramatic take on mundane scenes 

outrun my own two feet. 

Writing down my feelings in the fall

about the summer, 

the ones that bloomed from my chest

when my lover's wrist went limp. 

The silence is deafening 

as his lips disappear. 

I wasn't born to stand the winter. 

Pack my wounds with gauze

to salvage whatever is left of me. 

I've got my potions and cures, 

rain in the middle of the night. 

Arguments unresolved, 

honey dissolved, 

and the look on my favorite person's face. 

The foundation of my childhood home

is raided and robbed, 

forced to confess guilty

when it was framed by someone

who didn't know how to own up to his

mistakes. 

Everyone who has stolen sleep

from my mind, 

or has caused me to pine

will be in attendance

when it all comes crashing down

on the common factor, 

the name that my signature spells out.