he tells me about the Muse
the one she spoke of
all those years back–
hippie of the nineties

she comes to me
just as he described
like a demon
moving my words into place

even on this small screen
just like the tiny notebooks
i used to carry place to place
she is as furious as ever

i spill my Stonehenge story
like blood dripping from my nose
that can’t be stopped without
a giant glass of water

my irking for a different take
on this simple life we’re all handed
can be summarized by that summer
when spoiled teens stole my Stonehenge

my muse comes in disguise
in lips belonging to me to her
and her words my words
are as genuine as at sixteen

he speaks of demons
we all carry them like shadows
in our back pockets
me? i let them out