Sober too long
A thousand pictures fill my head
Nothing I want
All I deserve
A failure encrusted shoe
And a dangerously deep hole
A yearning
A yearning fit to burst through the confinement of narrow walls
Or the confinement of a narrow mind
The genie took two of my wishes
So I’ll leave you with this;
If I ever sleep again
Please don't wake me up

You come home stumbling
mumbling
grabbing me as the toxin numbs

I pretend I’m not sober
so I can feel your skin against mine

I pull you closer as you pull away
and we crash into sheets

I pretend not to feel your confusion
as you touch the curve of my neck
and remind me that I need you
more than you need me

By Arcassin Burnham


The earth , it hurts,
The sun , it burns,
The darkness, it lurks,
Can't see, further,
Ya mom , ya dad , ya sister , can't save,
Turning away from a long display of
emotions as fast as they came,
Be you , not them,
Reality , A sim,
Don't answer , to him,
Not her , not them,
They don't , want you , to be , the best,
Follow yourself and your guide and I
swear that your physical will be beat the
rest,
Session , is over,
Confused, not sober,
Just my luck , leaf clover,
Fight , like a soldier,
Put , your rage , and ego , aside,
Make the decision and put yourself first in whatever you will decide,

Sometimes I need a little head space.
I don't know how long the healing takes.
But who here wants to be the middle man?
I guess its time for us to take a stand.

Ripples riddle the mirror,
Below, faint shapes shift
Elegant forms float here and there,
Little legs thunder, leaving a gentle wake
in lieu of turmoil.

The air is thick, the sun falling,
Already lost behind billowing storm clouds
Etched chaotically on the horizon.
Invisible but for the ubiquitous light.

It is the dragonflies time,
A darting zip and an effortless flutter.
From surfacing **** to towering Reed,
Searching for something we can only pretend to know.

Determined housewives, faces set,
Arms pumping and hips swaying
Their Anatidean waddle so fitting
Their quacks, a wall of stereo.

A lone rusted sign warns of gators,
but of signs, there is that one alone.
No rogue bubbles or beady eyes,
no ticking of swallowed clocks,
no suspicious splashes.
nothing.

My battery is now as low as the sun,
and my pen is as empty.
A not so subtle poke in the ribs
from a universe in protest of the
bad poetry being inked.

c'est la vie
or as we say in English
**** it