Well.. all the ghosts returned today,
Knocking more intensely than before,
And for some senseless reason,
I opened wide the door.
And in they came, quite in a rush,
Bombarding me, as one.
And all the protests I contrived,
Were easier thought than done.
And so they kept on rambling,
Even while I poured them tea,
And I'm still trying to figure out,
What the hell is wrong with me?
Why did I let them in again?
And then help them to unpack?
I made them leave last night, but knew
This morning they'd be back.
And while they chatter on and on,
To my self's own blame recall,
I invited them in so graciously,
And received them one and all.
They seem so content to tarry here,
So much that they may reside,
And they do make quite good company,
For my scared and doubting pride.
So should I treat them nonchalant?
Or should I be the cordial host?
I don't know whether to love or hate,
These visits with my ghosts.

I call myself a poet
but not today.
Today I blow smoke
into March winds
and powder the sky
with exhale.
Chaos my muse
has gone away,
she’s left me here
with deck chairs
and wind chimes,
cigarettes and ash,
the epic poem
I planned to write
will have to wait.
Wait for the wave
of self-loathing
and remorse
to come along
as inspiration,
it always comes,
its just
a matter of time,
but not today.
Today i sit.
Today I smoke.

Today I exhale
what tomorrow
I breathe.