I either write when I'm in love or in pain.

So call me the constant writer.

But be not afraid when you see my poems drenched in blood,

For they are all like that.

Because I only write when I'm in love or in pain,

And for me those are the same.

By Arcassin Burnham

leaves blow away in an LSD grave
we will always be friends
whatever the price is we might have to pay
we will always be friends
throw roses on my grave today
let's not for get the ones who pave the way
we will always be friends,

(Melodies play )

I love you as a friend.

Poetry is perfected in pain,
Music through the madness of life.
So let your worries fall like rain
With a melody like a knife.
Take your sorrows and your fears
Play them out like a song
Drown them with your tears;
Until the whole world sings along.

For poetry is unlike the sorrow;
Music, much unlike the pain.
Each describe the madness of the morrow
Where melodies and tired eyes are sleepily lain
And eloquent dreams of memories borrow
The magical, maddening rhythm of the rain.

12/9/15

Colors all around me,
the grass tickling all my body,
the wind blows melodies.

Dear piano,
You are tales of mystery to me
Floating around the space in my head.
You're a death to be take,
A life that we all forget.
You're a poem blowing in the breeze,
You're a leaf falling in the wind.
Your the snow melting away after the harsh winter
And you're the fox who stalks his prey
In silence.
I see you when I skip my way down the park
And also when the masked man comes creeping
Slowly as he reaches his victim
And as his maniacal hand plunges the knife
Deep into his heart-

You are stories of lost love!
The ones that we write of in our paper back diaries.
The ones we keep in the back of our minds,
Waiting for our stories to unfold.
You're the keys to my sad songs
And the melody to my hope.
You're those long forgotten sunsets,
But also the rain when I walk back home.

I remember walking home without an umbrella,
And I wish I had you out on my road,
Playing yourself away as my whole body became soaked.
You will always be in the memories of my worst days,
And you will always be the writer of my love songs.
So tell me-
Is tonight another night of failure and flight
Or will I fight to get back up and make things right.

I hear you resounding in my dreams
And I hear you calming down my unending screams.
I feel you pulsing like butterflies flapping their wings
Or like humming birds while they stay and sing.

You are the steps of young feet on ice
And you're the magic in their young undying eyes.
You're the light in their small lives,
And your also their reason to fight.

You are the sound of adventure out to sea
Where nothing but bottles of *** are waiting for me.

But you're also all the demons that still claw at my mind.
And I try to forget about you every time I hear your melodies shiver down my spine.

And then silence-

upon this land I travel along
wondering who it is
that will hear my song--
I have to sing always, you see
because without song
there is no life within me
and when music
surrounds my heart and soul
there is no where that
I am afraid to go.

                                                            ­     oh how I

wish so that someone could be
as in love with song as I
(as I go floating on notes of melodies
while passing by)
and then find that their love for song
brings them to know (and see)
that they are just as in love
with me...

Melodies once created my identity,
an addiction-driven crisis mixed with anxiety and loneliness,
I longed for love yet my ears tuned into hardship.

Melodies once molded my identity,
a clean and pure existence mixed with clarity and acceptance,
I longed for love yet my ears tuned into freedom.

Melodies once saved my soul,
a newly-formed identity mixed with a fresh conscience and patched relations,
I live with love for now my ears are satisfied with my lover's melodies.

.
"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter"
John Keats, Ode On A Grecian Urn.

.
I'm never sure how I should take his silence,
It's not by choice, that much I know.
For he is a piper painted on porcelain,
Left to inspire a dreamer in an Ode.

His immortal canopy never sheds a leaf,
But offers no shade - frozen in time -
And as it was written, he never came to life and played
His fair maiden her melodious rhyme.

It sits on his lips as they chip and crack;
A dry mouth, a pipe for melodies made.
Sadly for the piper, I don't share Keats' hope
As he said of his maiden, 'She cannot fade'.

This brave boy's riff will remain dormant,
Haunting and quiet - laid on porcelain,
As I can't help this overwhelming jealousy
Of the notes he'll never play trapped within.

How they reel through my mind but leave nothing -
Not a sound or a ripple of waves,
Whereas mine float a while and decay with little grace,
The dotted-quavers left fading on staves.

I'm never sure how I should take his silence,
It's not by choice, that much I know.
Yet I envy more than words his lifetime in a moment,
In a world in which I wait and watch things grow.

Words are like melodies.
Without notation,
rhyme
or reason
they mean

nothing.

Is it weird
That I cling
To the songs
I know he listens to
To feel his feelings
Pretending I have his heart?