key into lock
skull-like
iris
blooming
in the corner
vintage red
sipped down
2 liters
of 2006
an amount of
a capacity of
mind
pink
rose
horse out of
water
through mud
moon gallops
across
warzones
couples kissing
and
for a moment
winks in
the horizon
of day

I speak out for the children whose homes have become warzones,
They are afraid to open their mouths in fear bullets will fire.
Shaking and hiding inside of this covering they call skin,
Words that will never be spoken are encased in a
Heart they wish would quit beating.
Words are pounding at walls created too thick to escape
Into a society that boycotts free thinking.

Children scream in alleys, never to be heard.
Children with fears louder than their screams.
Children whisper words they wish were important enough for someone to listen;
Soon they find the only one to listen will be a blank page.

Words burst the walls down of their prison hearts
And flow to the fingertips of the young bodies with the still beating hearts,
Even though they used to wish it would quit beating.

The words that escaped to the paper will be read,
And society will call it inappropriate,
And parents will call it a phase,
And friends will laugh,
And teachers will not understand,
And the children will feel alone in the only place they have ever called home.

The pens, notebooks, and fugitive words will be moved from the kitchen table
To the locked drawer of the nightstand;
Only to breathe cold night air of a sleeping home.
The children will learn to hide every thought they have ever had,
Because they are afraid of the warzone we call the world.

By Arcassin Burnham


Never shy from the drama but I'd rather take the new pacifist
Route,
Guts and glory , not sorry for all the things that you've lost
When you deal without,
I'm so stuck up with changing people's point of views , it's a waste
Even in itself,
I got no room for people in the past that brought me hatred , you
Get no help,

             So tell me what's on your mind right now,
             Do you wanna run from home,
             You wanna be on your own,
             Escaping through warzones,
             Your dad left you alone,
             Is your pedestal so high for life to move on,
             So your thinking now that you're really fit for the throne,
             If anything....
            
I've recollected the bad memories and learned from everything I've
Been through,
There's no freedom , no courtesy and no light , every man wanna be
The best dude,
Saying what's on mind cause the fight will begin like the preparation
Of life,
I was lost but God found me in a sea of sins , time to make it right.

when i got my first period,
i was thrilled.
marked with the crimson stroke of womanhood,
i was no longer a little girl.
i was no longer too young
to be a part of the whispered gossip filled conversations
of the women in my family.
my sister and i could share boxes of pads and tampons,
bottles of advil and naproxen.
i was no longer too young to go bra shopping,
too young to understand.
i could read Teen Vogue and relate to every word,
i was a woman.

no one told me that it was now okay.
it was now okay for men to comment
on my new chest.
it was now okay for boys to yell their
tube sock dreams of my wider hips.
no longer protected by the shield of childhood,
it was now okay.

while i experienced many new things
after that first visit from Aunt Flow,
i also began to feel things i had not felt before.
an unexplained, unwarranted hatred of
the body i lived in,
my burden of anxiety heightened
with raging hormones in my blood,
mood swings worsening the monster
living under my brain named depression.
red spots on my face that boys liked to make fun of
as if their faces were not acne warzones themselves.
another growth spurt, as if i was not already towering
above the other girls in my class.

“don’t let anyone see your pad when you go to the bathroom to change,”
my friend whispered to me at school,
“it’s inappropriate.”
“don’t say period in front of boys,
it’s gross.”
“don’t talk about puberty,
boys think it’s unattractive.”

suddenly i realized that my body
was not for myself
and it was my responsibility
to act like I didn’t feel like there were
earthquakes in my ******.
it was my responsibility to hide my new body,
because my education was not as important
as the pervy boys in my math class.
it was my responsibility to not bleed through
my new jeans,
and miss class because i’m crying in the
bathroom as i call my mother to bring me
a change of clothes.

because being a woman is unattractive,
but when she’s half naked on the cover of ******* we like it.
because spreading your legs open for a ******
is gross,
but when a man is in between them it’s hot.
because a woman’s body was never for women,
unless it’s ****** and crampy,
then we don’t want to hear about it.

i am here to say that Womanhood is for women.
i am here to say that young girls should take pride
in their new bodies.
your body is yours and no one else’s
and you should never feel ashamed of it.
you should never feel shame
when the crimson wave comes.

Who is the angel
Who found you living lifeless
The angel that never seems to break
The angel that stands beside you

Who is the angel
Who gives you life
and always wipes your tears?
The angel that sews your broken heart
The angel that fights your fears

The strongest bridges appear unbreakable
But they withstand the greatest stress
and bulletproof glass will take the shots
But only just so many,
and you might not see it coming
but it will break when it is bombed

The angel will always take your chains
And rest them on their shoulders
They'll smile at you when you're okay
And tell you not to worry

But don't forget, the angel is human too
Despite their amazing strength,
and even though they never cry
Their eyes mask the blood of warzones

The angel will always take your chains
Even when they cannot hold them
And the angel will do so until they break,
so that you can always smile

So go find the angel that never cries
Hug them, and say I love you
And you could be the angel
when the bulletproof is bombed

monday means
manically searching for something to occupy your mind
and it seems
you just can't seem to leave the past behind

tuesday is
tar and treason; poisoning your own body
and you can't forget what your father always says
don't give that heart to just anybody

wednesday holds
weddings and warzones; love gone faulty
just wait till the air gets cold,
and you'll sense the presence of all that is rotting

thursday brings
thirst for that which the deceitful showed you
and all those broken things
from which you had to choose

friday proclaims
freedom from that which you lost
no longer insane,
you now know the cost

saturday comes with
sadness and pain; thunder and rain
his love, a playful myth
his lust, that which you overcame.

sunday you are here
and no one else stands close enough
to sense your fear
no demons below, no angels above
but your head is clear
you are one with us all, you are whole and full
a week passed, a month went
years were lost, what was possible
has met it's end.

Lift the crumb-sized bit to your lips,
Hesitate until it's too late for hesitation,

Fold to tongue and absorb those tasty, harmless
Spider footprints and germatic warzones.

Durch Geld , wird die Demokratie ihre eigenen Zerstöre

The decline of the west plays back and forth in newsroom warzones across the America that Samuel Adams died believing in, the promise of a gold lined path to a bygone peace the immigrants can now only dream of, while the sons of the sons of the sons of the sons of their sons close their doors and arm their security systems, there are racks of guns lining every wall and everybody looks ready to go to war, so I might as well join them, the possibility of compromise lies with dozens of boys and girls in dozens of pools of blood across dozens of states and the people cry out enough is enough, and if the decaying capital will not hear us then they must be made to listen, a united front of iron forged from the fires that burned down Missouri, that burned down Los Angeles, that burned down D.C after the soothing voice of the raging masses was shot dead, if my rhetoric is too strong it is because not only are things not moving fast enough they are moving backwards,
When men, leatherbound and arrogant would consider every moment in the spotlight a coronation, the options become clear:
These kings must die so that the country may live

people speak to hear themselves think,  

there are no more conversations,

no more characters to play



I am an actor wearing out my grief

between the lines that barricades fatigue,  

I cannot be tired if I wish to produce,  

such is the waking nightmare of grief,  

which renders feeling a commodity, a production

profitable in utility, as if “use” ever was real



with my ancestors as guardian angels, I am guaranteed to fall

into addiction, whether it be coffee and its ability to temporarily

halt grief, or when it’s midday and life wanes as if it were framed,

As if empowerment of the businesses through the destruction of my body

justifies the tears forming the empty warzones of childhood memory,  



My writing is power and the corruption of
inner-peace, invaluable until the end,  

indivisible until I’m bleeding out, begging for mercy

My tears, damp with grief, can finally crash

into the earth

Another labor of love gone unpaid

There are shots in the distance.
Teachers push their students
to the nearest exit.

Crying and afraid
one girl runs
all the way
into the woods,
while another
calls her mother.

Reporter asks if
she was surprised
that this happened.

The teenager
is barely able to speak
without trembling,
but manages to reply
that she figured
it was about time.

This has become
so normalized,
that we have
shooter drills.

Hallways become warzones.
Ceramic tiles are stained
with barely teenage bodies,
shell shocked students,
walking disasters
disassembled
and stranded in the middle
of American nightmare
that we can’t wake up from.