Chased By Ghosts

Turning back…..one year ago

Chimera Poetry

woman-hiding-in-abandoned-room-jill-battaglia

I am being chased by ghosts 

memories that land on your head like bird droppings without warning

only an unexpected stomach clench and you are off again

reliving the same old same old

watch his hand closely as he moves those shells around 

trying to see the tells in time to walk away

game over this time ha ha so long suckers…

how long will those phantoms pursue me

 how long will I give them leave

to curl into me and pull the string in my back

I envy the stone statues in the fountain

cooling water and granite

nothing shifting and writhing inside

no reminders

that they once developed a taste for fire 

and was nearly burnt up

I am that smoldering girl no longer

I drove until the road ran out to reach a different time and place

a different way of being

a different me

yet no…

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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