Well I'm like a weird book,

With pages unnumberd
And stories not told.
With a cover that's bended and not carefully folded.

you don't know it...

But I can't
I just cannot rip out pages from my journal
you do not understand

The only thing you understand is...

emerald linen edged with jade
a book titled with my name

and it’s heavy.

i flip through the pages
but they’re blank.

or maybe they’re written
in a way i cannot see

or maybe it was never written at all.

or maybe it’s a reflection,
an empty book, an empty me.

& maybe I’ll write it someday.

Yes, snow.  Mebbe take my face in your hands and shake me?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDIII)


It's...snowing.  Hug yourself within the pale
Eye of these naked hours whose ghastly sense
Of Winter sits triumphant oer pretense,
As tiny flakes 'non filter down t'avail
The soul of that keen silence--cherished bail
We relished in forgotten days like thence
Twas fit to sanctify us, wandring hence
To finger cotton-candy whiteness' tale.
Don't ask me why my heart sank in a poor
'Scuse when my owly eyes first caught the view.
Nor if I loved morn's cuppa like twas fer
My soul's recure, Assam just what we knew
It should be if you taste it, no.  We were
Too fond of lies, I think, was't?  I miss YOU.

09Nov18a

...say--whatever, nor how to say "ghastly" with another word.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXCVII)


O how the gutter drools in morning's pale
And ghastly eye, leaves fluttring down from hence
In lonely ones or twos, so yellow, whence
Look how November lays a carpet, hale
Aye golden, thick and musty, whose detail
Glows dimly under grey racks' twilight, dense
Calm is't? mair bitter than our souls fr'intents
Like, while Death stares us in the face sans bail.
Trees' naked boughs stretch upward as winds stir
The fallen with a careless hand.  We do
Not look, but with faint shivring as it were,
Pull sweaters closer, hang up lights to woo
Warm feelings as the strands blink through this poor
Light, and rain weeps sans consolation, blue.

06Nov18a

open textbooks like broken promises,
pages creased and corners frayed,
sticky notes smudged;
my eyes blur over the words
the words in black and white and blue;
my fingers in blue spots and red tint
fumble with the edges of the paper,
cold and clumsy -
it's hard to stay awake.

by Arcassin Burnham

I hope you use to feel,
I hope you use to feel like I did.
But you never did,
Cause the things that I surpassed were surreal, too vivid.

Sketches and the drawings I would do would look just like you now.
Ripping pages had to do with rage, I couldn’t stop thinking of you now, now.
I just knew that my dreams weren't real when I would dream of you now ,now.
You had better things to do than to be friends with me , but I loved you now, now.

I hope you use to feel,
I hope you use to feel clarity.
But you said need,
Cause the things you use to have then , now you don't need,
Which was my love.

in a universe
full of drifting souls
you chose me,
the forgotten and abandoned

i warned you
all my pages were empty
but that didn’t deter you
in fact
you were more intrigued

and now i understand
it’s because
your pages were also blank

so we held hands
and scrawled our words
in writing that’s messy
only because there’s
so much to express
in so little time
and we just might forget
if it’s not written down

now my pages
they’re full
and yours are the same

two souls mingling
forgotten and abandoned
by all but eachother.