My attention is hammered into being,
           as the anvil of my motions
                      are moulded into  formation.

Heated in the furnace of
                                       my subconscious.
What once was just white heated noise
       now moulds with each hit of reasoning..

Our thoughts are always being sculpted
               in the milliseconds of there creation.
Some aren't as we wished,
             misshapen syllables are reheated
to verses later hammered into cognitive thoughts.

*"Our perceiving is moulded with wielded
                    blows that form our every sentence,

By Arcassin Burnham


I see them there smiling at me as if I never stood a chance
Of keeping you in the first place,

But Honey you are long gone , only the pictures remain and
I still feel ashamed I let go,

dont be discouraged, but I just miss your touch,
You're old enough to punch me right in the nuts,
For treating you so cruel,
I found something better and she keeps me happy unlike
You,
I won't take part in your demise,
See through your soul right through your eyes,
I'm troubled so I can't deny,
The feels when you date other guys,
Pieces of you are in my mind,
I have no time to dwell in shrine,
The anomaly of my whole life,
I pray for you , hope you are fine.

I just broke my arm,
   playing songs with no melodies
   motifs like lizard scales.
I just broke my arm,
   remembering where my fingers go
   bass on ivory like Scriabin at midnight.
I just broke my arm,
   dancing to crumbled up manuscripts
   timbre so soft like bags of nails.
I just broke my arm,
   singing sweet tragedies off key
   ostinatos like "I told you so's" from a book I didn't read.
I just broke my arm,
   begging for answers
   arco off strings like hate off the tongues of babes.
I just need help
I just want sight
I just...
I just...

Clear Skies Vanilla
is the only soft serve
on the days we have no clouds
and none can be seen
floating on our horizons

it is our seasonal choice
that we wish could come
all year long,
could be as predictable
as *Pumpkin Spice in October
or Eggnog in December
even uncelebrated Baseball-Nut
springs up at the right time.

If only our skies could
be the layers of a sundae--
a limited selection
that always comes down to
hot fudge, nuts,
with a defrosted cherry on top--
then our decisions
would be made for us
we could never
be wrong.

Instead we deliver
Icy Thundery Blueberry BubbleGumy hard serve
on those days--
too complicated to understand
too unwilling to shorten their title
too difficult to be simply BlueGumTuesday
because the sky,
too mixed up to be...Blue.

We raise our scoop
for each serving to dish out--
with them we learn our taste
what calms our nerves
and how to evaporate the rain,
because when we get
to have those cloudless days
we'll have the day
to be flavorful.

It's 12:29.
I'm thinking about the moon.
It's one of those "Sufjan Stevens" nights.
His music always manages to perfectly translate my befuddling feelings and thoughts into rhythm and beat.
If I rest now I will miss out on what the night has to offer.

It's 1:07
I'm lying in bed.
I hear my mom on the phone with grandma.
They always manage to keep the conversation fresh and perpetual despite the 8,096 mile distance.
If I let my eyes close now morning and work will arrive faster.

It's 2:03
I give up on homework.
I open the laptop to watch Netflix.
I re-watch a show I've seen a dozen times.
If I escape to dreamland, this sense of knowing of what is to come will be stolen by the uncertainty of the subconscious.

It's 4:32
I'm filled with sadness.
I have procrastinated badly.
I abruptly jump out of bed and head downstairs to brew coffee.
If I go to sleep, I will regret it in the morning when I will face the consequences of my laziness and late night reasoning.