Three Poems

Dead Muse

My muse has been murdered

Oh, what a crime.

Creativity once flowing,

Gold turned to grime.

The words from my keyboard or pen

used to flow.

Now nothing is working

I have nowhere to go.

My muse didn't even go out with a bang

more like a whisper, barely caressing my ears.

I could do nothing to stop it,

it's worse than I feared.

Now all has grown stagnant.

Deceased ideas corrode

My muse had been murdered

it's the end of the road.

Displaced Hematoma

Glistening.

Metallic.

Hollow.

Roughly, it penetrates my soft pale skin.

Stings of pain as it sucks the life from me.

Taking what it needs it carelessly returns the superfluous matter to my body, my arm on fire.

Unconcerned with my wellbeing and procedure the crimson fluid fills my tissues, rather than my vein. Pooling under the surface of my skin, the blood causing my arm to swell well past it’s natural limits.

Grotesque and protruding is my once smooth skin.

The softness exchanged for hard, uneven lumps.

Bruised and battered, I leave.

Untitled

Gasping.
Struggling to stay alive.
Your key to respiration
Has been deprived
Writhing
Pained
The world begins to blur
This asphyxiation
Draining…
Its all happened before
The hourglass is running low
With no hope of being turned.  
Find a way to steal a breath
Or continue to feel the burn.
Lightheaded
Slowly becoming dead weight
Breathe in damnit
Before its too late.