Ringing
Burst of nothingness
Fallen into mind
They scream
They bleat
Falling silently
Nothing to fleat
The flies swarm
They fleat
The tombs hide
Continue to eat
Gasp and cry
Buried inside
Beneith

The smell of butter, the taste of flour,
Children will mutter for half an hour,
Until everyone's food arrives,
Mouths full and away with the cries,
Of chattering people and loud music,
Eating is the only language fluent.

i become
very aware
of my chewing
when there
is somebody
**** in the
room.

by Arcassin Burnham

Laced with my ambitions mixed with motivations and a teenage life that was forsaken like a
Frankenstein as a fail creation to the family members I thought would've had  my back though all
The troubles but they are the troubles in a world so potent to mind controlling and self-
Absorbing in breaking a focused Lord that only wants the best for all his children but the system
Says otherwise to prized possessions like peace in America where they spike what you eat and
Make a profit off the weak,
Blacks in America can't be leaders without corruption and greed and every step you take is
Mostly a bullet or on your knees especially desensitizing all the people to the wrong things in life
that'll make you **** just for some bling bringing kids and teens in hospitals to be adopted into
Worse families is the trade where money is the seed amplifying what you need collecting checks
Off of kids you don't need pinching the poor and defenseless to meet all demands thinking why
Is it that God doesn't take a stand.

I was eating a cookie
But it was too hard
...
So I put it in
The microwave
For a minute
...
...
And guess what?
It worked!

Imagine your hand is
one hundred days older
Than the hand you use now.
Look at your hand.

What will that hand hold,
in one hundred days from now?
What will that hand have push away
that changes the next one hundred days?

Your hand is younger than it is now
than it will be in one hundred days.
In one hundred days, this hand will
mould and shape and change each way.

This hand is the age you are now,
and this hand is not eternal.
This hand helps you to write and pick up
what you need; reflexes from danger, sometimes.

One hand in one hundred days may be
marked, with a burn or scar or a tattoo.
The other hand may be softer, because
you wore gloves or moisturised by choice.

Or maybe this hand in one hundred days
Will be blistered, from harm you fought with wonder.
Maybe this hand is a blessing forgotten
And you reach for another coffee.

So why are you so focused
on what happened one hundred days ago?
The hand moves, clenches, rests, changes,
like time too.