"itsself" poems
BY ARCASSIN BURNHAM
waitin for the mornin to open its eyes,
Shes waitin for me,
but dosent know that dawn has found me,
she mocks the sun,
your ignorance is a bliss,
one step from a kiss,
i guess i should have known better,
so beautiful as love itsself,
But inside,
evil as sin,
when,
when will the morning come,
love aint going anywhere,
im always here.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
There is nothing more than a photographers dream
than a sunset over a blue clear river.
Its just on the beauty but the peace you must feel
Your heart melting to the golden glow of the sun.
But its not of the view
to some anyone could a have a a van to take the love of art
But must don't feel the fullness of the work
There is nothing to a sports players dream
to win every day
The fans yelling your name and calling you the because after every goal
Its the beat of the music to get you going
Notes after the other and tap of your foot to keep the play
No story to write itsself but the holders mind
The wonder on the world and people that say its home
The teaching of each lesson to the kids that have brains
The thinker to the doer.
You see there are more to what it seems
It all has its flaws
But they are all the same
It makes you happy.
By Me
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
I can see no Islands
Across the glittering sea
My mind is alone within itsself
Playing among the sands
No thaught, no reason
Only feeling, in sepia light
Everything is distant and dreamy
Like a smile from long ago
The nagging emptiness
drowned out by shimmering birdsong
the feelings of dread engulfed
by something worse
Beauty so sinister
A dark whispering among the lights
painful euphoria
and the urge to escape
I washed up here again
so soon after I built my raft and set sail
Hypnotised by the sound of crashing waves
on the island of the lotus eaters
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 3:56 PM UTC
Death wanders in every way but aimlessly with a bag of "welcome homes" for the souls who make it through life without getting trapped.
Wheels turnin on pure momentum can roll for miles piloted by a corpse,
whos to say one couldnt win a race?
Even if he finishes first what could a cold a corpse want with victory?
Souls cant be bought back with fortune and fame,
death doesnt want it and the devils got enough of it.
A corpse who earns the title "winner" will still sit and wither until the dust that brought him life finds the place of its donation,
till his soul has told itsself "it was worth it" enough times he believes it,
the thing is a corpse who crosses the finish line first wont be seen as a corpse, people will pump artificial life into their veins with their words of endearment. The corpse, Now piloted by some rogue fascination of himself will come to see the world as his himself,
dead,
but victorious,
pumped full of artificial life and tinged with good intentions,
blanketed with fear and wrapped in the cold embrace of purgatory.
The problem with artificial life is that its no less temporary or tangible than the proposed "real life",
in fact in many ways its much sweeter,
but also more ignorant,
after all ignorance is bliss.
Artificial life can be taken as easily as any other and death tends to follow up the first meeting to make sure things are ending smoothly.
Hes got a quota and hes not about to fall short because of somethin as petty as a second chance.
Death was a victor once too,
now he shambles here and there, or floats or appears,
who knows,
maybe one of the corpses piled near hollywood has seen his grand entrance, but they might be hard to pick out.
I dont know if talking to them would grant you much knowledge on something like that though
perhaps its better to stop and ask a tumbleweed what theyre running from,
or running to,
they might have a more accurate idea of where the finish line is.
All ive ever learned from a death is that life doesnt stop when you die and you wont die just once,
and when a corpse wins a race he cant wear the ribbon.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 3:34 AM UTC
Colour cannot bring itsself to be here
Here, among the snowy trees
Which have become so old, and twisted
That even they no longer hold beauty
The branches drag, and whip
And pull you in by the heart
Then leave you, a broken toy
To wonder searching for the hopeless
It is so cold, and dark here
And ancient beyond measure
The snow is long trudged
But bears no footprint
As the branches bear no mark.
Even a melancholy wind
Or weeping gale, would instill more joy
In this wretched place
But instead, suffocating silence
Demanding impossible cries from the soul.
These trees yield to no blade
Or to the sands of time and decay
For the holder of the axe
Will find his own blood in the snow.
You could not bring yourself to take a path
Instead lying in the snow, hoping against hope
for escape which would not come
It only lead you here.
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 3:37 PM UTC
nothing but positive
is in my life to stay
im tired of living
in such a negative way
today is the day
that I can declare
change to the way
I see the way of life.
life itsself is
such a beautiful place
it's filled with yellow Rays
and pink figmented flowers
and at the end of the days
as the nights start to lay
the pretty colors in the sky
say hi, just for a little while.
and finally
im tired of the nasty ways
no more bad days
I declare for myself.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC