By Arcassin Burnham

Let the rain come down
Cleansing my the pureness of me,
Vines grow from the tips of my toes,
I shall write a fine will,
In respects to the old me,
Painting the town bright green instead
Of red,
Wishing someone would fill my brain with lead,
Accustomed to the pain married to the hate,
Attracted to the lust,
Woken up by the creation,
In hopes of a better nation,
I put beside my stupid obsessive jealousy
For rice and treats,
Treat me to a cold piece of steak,
Please!
Be easy,
Only trying to check on my feet,
To see if the vines went away,
They won't fade like every bad situation I've had,
Throwing lots of shade,
I'm in the ground filled with mistakes,
I paid the way for things that I can relate.