We blindly type out of memorization,
We blindly write from practiced habit,
We blindly skip paragraphs, ignore articles, and pensively print upon the line without realization of what we’re saying at all.
We never truly see,
We deteriorate out of muscle memory
Absently offering an embrace neglecting to fully eyes-closed experience the wonderfulenss of it at all.
We go through the motions,
Dwelling in our minds straining its relation to our souls,
We no longer act in love,
But the muscle memory of it.
We look, but don’t truthfully see,
We touch, but forget to truly feel,
We hear, but we no longer listen,
We have flesh, yet we are merely programmed.
Advanced, but empty,
Knowledge unimaginable, yet still lacking,
Right, left, up, down, but do we realize the palpability and tenderness of the action?
Or are we too much on automatic?
In over drive,
That we forget to live out the littlest things and realize them to the fullest

I just want to feel something
coursing
through my veins
that isn’t blood.
I’ve grown so tired
and bored
of my flesh.
give me something
More

Breath was exhumed from the corpses
lingering impressions.
   But all were merged beyond
                           the futile emotions of the flesh.

For where reflections were void,
             only true deliberations stigmatized.
                                    Everything of before,
               that  were psychedelic illusions.

Reminiscing of stained windows,
                recently cleansed of the memories of
                                                                ­yesterday.
Only now were remnant fallen dreams buried
                                           beneath falling stars..



                           That crawled like maggots
                                                 in the heavens
burrowing deeper the more they fell...
                And still though falling, there breath still
                                          gasped as death only exhales.

My bones are turning
dry,
       breaking,
on the silver rope.
My flesh decaying
dry,
       cells,
blackened dirt.
Foul meat
drops,
        beneath,
the hounds hungered long.

I say there is no physical beauty.
This skin, this flesh, this bone
are but the clay of which we make our beauty,
the instrument on which we play our beauty.
  
Witness the failure of funeral directors to please true aesthetes:
the dead Ingrid Bergman lacks the beauty of a living bag lady.
  
Tennis masters
given K-Mart rackets
win gracefully,
while the high-school violinist
playing a Stradivarius
fails to delight us.
  
Thus noses, lips, ******* have no beauty in themselves.
Perfect features are easily distorted by
anger, sloth, irritability, or conceit.
But in a rare few
energy, grace, composure, and sensitivity
are blended in such a quantity
that they overflow
and color with an exquisite beauty every pore of the body,
fill with a subtle music every gesture, every word.
  
I say there is no physical beauty.
This skin, this flesh, this bone
are but the clay of which we make our beauty,
the instrument on which we play our beauty.

By Arcassin Burnham

Soul Searching, Earth lurking,
Just mind your business , we're over here,
Bird chirping, commenting,
Keep talking **** , we can not hear,
This house , ain't a home in my eyes, there's so much to
Be discussed.

Not taking too much from the fort,
I gotta hold it down,
I plan to place this little heart in a jar for my
safe keeping.

Losing my lil sanity and calcifying fear away,
Too much to bare in this pile of flesh that I
could not be in this place, turn day to night
with just a flick, there is no escape...

Take a picture,
Make it last,
Might be your last to be on this earth,
Don't a menace,
Don't be in your feelings,
Worrying too much , they put aside their dealings,
Way too much healing.

Because I'm Losing my lil sanity and calcifying fear away,
Too much to bare in this pile of flesh that I
could not be in this place, turn day to night
with just a flick, there is no escape.