He claims thalassophobia
But explores in the deep
And relaxes in quiet certainty
The words that he should keep
For red from his heart, and blue
From his ocean
Combine in a muddle, a puddled
Emotion
What is it to crave?
An armour man in gold?
A wooden-fence, black silence,
A bearded, hat, high, old?

Maybe just a snifter smells
Or the ringing of a wondrous bell
Can find purchase in its soil
For my hands are cupped
I'm lapping up
The rain for milk has spoiled

Oh no, wanderlust!
You have broadened into space -
I can't afford that.

by Arcassin Burnham


I don't know who you take me for,
but I'm not a saint,
And as the chills run down my spine,
sincerely over think,
there are no happy endings to thoughts
I thought about,
the holy ghost demands to know,
what I can show,
lays its hand upon my head and reads my
brain like laid out notes,
of broken tables and wine glasses,
shattered fragments of what's to come,
set a cup of punishment with battery acid,
not knowing what he has done,
old pictures that I should burn,
planting mines in my head
but its already confirmed empty,
being as sly as a fox,
and as strong as a bull,
And While ******* comes lurking,
Theres no other ways to be cruel
instead of being a fool,
I'm not worth it, but kisses for another will
make it better.