To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.

by Arcassin Burnham

Bad days , good days,
Their all the same,
just put your feelings all aside for me this time,
your mind , is a weapon ,against the world,
to make a whole new one so divine,
no matter what , no matter what,
I'll always be a guiding force for it to bring me home,
I said no matter what , no matter what,
I'll open up these eyes including the third one alone,
I am special, we all are in this so called reality,
how you gon' blame me when we are all heaven sent?
how you gon' say the most high has white skin?
how you gon' win when you ain't right within?
I get used in this world,
I'm abused in this world,
I'm betrayed in this world,
I'm delayed in this world,
I get the worst advice from my family,
I get hate in this world,
I'm awake in this world,
I've been beat in this world,
cheated in this world,
theres always less love in my energy.

Locks cannot contain the force
That innately exudes from every being
So nurture it,
And allow it to consume you
Create fully,
With every facet of your heart
In order to achieve
True nourishment of the soul

Moonlit sky
Why
Do you try
To lie?

I see through
the treacherous
waste
of time and space

Saturn and Jupiter
make you look
stupider
You talk through Uranus

Milky way
You say?
Maybe
Some day!

Satellite
saddle bright
ride the horse
Ursa's delight

Universe
Witche's curse
Hide dark matter
In your purse

Atom, quark
In New York
Higgs-Boson
Keep your nose on

Big Bang
Big Crunch
Do not mention
The 12th dimension

Let's all send
our cars to Mars!
Maybe the aliens
Will choose ours?

Little broken home has lost me, small passions creeping over dusted skin like gritted teeth in a monsters maw.

I lost you long ago
and finding you was never an option and hell I know you don't even want me back, but baby situations have changed and certain desires need me and you to be together.

I felt a connection to you once, long ago in a passed lifetime and with hopes I can build it up again
to make this work.
Are you willing to try?
Are you willing to be mine?
Are you willing to find out if we can be united in a bond made for love but based on lethal bitterness?

I can't promise kindness,
but I'll promise to be fair,
I won't make you bleed for another man's crime.
Don't think you are better off dead, when it's my hand you are playing against, I am evil and you hate me, but face the devil to change it.

All hope is long lost, and bitter birds have left an empty nest with foul eggs and a golden promise to raise hell upon your face. I tell you, you are lost and not better off dead, but better off rotten in the ground with the skeletons ***** minds monsters.

It's not force, but still not a choice, just really bad opinions, and don't try to find out the glorious tragic pain in your heart that will be revealed at a refuse of this demand.

I shouldn’t have  
I guess I forcefully moved my things into your heart on parham street
This fool has been celebrating a grubby clean slate
He drank a cocktail before the harvest
After storing his brain safely in the garbage
He asked ‘would you be mine’

I shouldn’t have said I love you first
Now realising that was the pistol to your head
And i jumped the gun twice and over again
This fool stands in awe of his folly
He reads his scribbles of idyllic love poems and ******* dovy quotidians
Every compelled ‘i love you’ will be overturned
My hands over-burned from the blisters
Bitter from the bile from every memory
Though i took my time, I was patiently stupid

I shouldn’t have
Now i’m sat here with this lollipop of regret
Now knowing that every graphic snapshot was because of that same pistol
No wonder why it all seemed strange
I used to gnaw about making you feel like you needed to trust me and love me
I was yet weary of receiving the blame of every kiss, pause and touch
I didn’t realise that the foundation was built on compelled labour
I was to quick to celebrate, but now i know what i should have