Wandering

I was looking for my muse
And I found it down the barrel of a 9mm pistol
And I found it whirling down the drain with the suds from my hand soap
And I found it whistling a tune while I did the dishes.
I was wishing for the words
And I found them in your eyes
And I found them in your strong, loving arms
And I found them dancing around with my memories
But I see the words in the sight of the 9mm
And I see them in the dirt that I am washing away
And in the pit of my stomach with my dinner and red wine.
And the words and my muse are sometimes one in the same
And they are angry and cold and tired and lying
Sometimes they are lonely and filled with sad memories and regrets
Sometimes they are filled with disgrace but sometimes
They are hopeful and happy and loving and excited
Dreamy, whimsical, and sometimes
They come at you like a bullet or a kiss.