By Arcassin Burnham

You might have ran away from the cops
A few times and the insane crime rate
Really influenced,
You may have stole from your moms purse
And she will never find that your little ego
Made you do it,
You make these bad decisions in your life
Cause your father was never there and your
Mother don't understand,
All these bad choices don't make you who you
Are,
You have to fight and take a stand,
to be a man, that should be the plan,
All that you are can't be centered around
an Evil and warm embrace,
Just splash some water right in your face,
And say that your better than this bad space,
Cant lose your life over this,
And its just another phase.

/

My mind is like a glass figure ready to be cracked,
pushing pulses and making eye contact hurts my soul,
I am to the edge, making one last impression on others,

beautiful faces with bad intentions,
exploring the darker side of life and love and places,
no one knows what goes on in ones mind but lets be
clear that they have pleasant thoughts and areas
of the brain that gives a **** about the stress and strain
of it all while tackling situations first hand in combat.

I was never a rose,
But green
Not a chrysanthemum,
Nor an orchid
Something cut,
Walked upon
And yet,
You were the dew
And kissed me,
With a thousand moist kisses
Everynight,
Making me sparkle
In the sunrise

We're we ever,
But grains
Of sand,
Salt
More,
Less, us
We? But ideas
Of tomorrow's
Simple,
MAYBE?

i wonder why people are
so in love with the moon
when it actually just reflected
the lights of the sun?

the moon decides the tides of the ocean
but still, why are we worshipping
the reflector?

yeah, maybe you can love the stars
because they shine a little bit
and, and maybe you can love the moon
because it was there during the lonely nights

but what about the sun?
maybe we are too into something else
to realize the ones that has burned for us.

small hands
like small minds
can never grasp great things

All Roads lead to Salvatore
A Poem by Corset


On the way to Salvatore
I was cracked
A diamond with her head down
pops another piece of gum
makes light of the crest
makes the sign of the cross
across her window pane breast
forever more
Gooseberry products only
she swears
the scratch of her voice
a sonnet of fingernails
on chalkboard
"there are no teachers here "
says she
only nightmares of agriculture"
and the slow lonely climb,
limbs bowing to the knees.
acquiesce of leaves
holding on in vertigo
skinny dipping the night air.

Bertram tells you to ram it
his balcony tilted
like a slot machine
a glimpse of clothes drying
on a Taiwan breeze
ran into a tree
"don't be afraid"  says he
"it won't feel a thing"

You keep your voice down
still it drowns the radio
while fashion jewelry
lift their pointed legs
it's pepper on a dying mans steak
we dare to be sub-standard
people are shouting
we will do our best
to make sure promises are not kept,
to honor the test subjects
we will build a barn
threaten the faculty
with time honored contingency
and look forward to the *****
side of fact.

We shall take our time,
scoffing behind our hands
we know
if a person can not be themselves
they tend to be someone else...
suffering.,
surely there must be a way to
pin this tail on the donkey,
or at least the blunt
blonde official, when you
get a close up
you can tell how old
she is.