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.

The sky, black as the eyes that stare at it.
Star-studded and as seamless as new programming.
I look down, the streets molested by fluorescent splotches --
red ribbons of memory evaporate from the lights of motorcycles,
gurgling by.

A homeless, pregnant woman, in a bar, once told me,
"Forgiveness is letting a prisoner free, then finding out that you were the prisoner."

The sunset looks like an explosion of emotions
no one understands, yet.

The smudges on her lips
look like the bruises of an orphan apple.

why couldn't it have worked?