a distinction

the world is in you and me therefore

it cannot be yours to keep. 

remember that when you peep. the heavy

fog falling in between people’s seams from the

aurora borealis to the beaches of normandy.

a voluntary check written out to daft 

all utilized into the production of your laugh.

let’s not discover profit waiting in a remote palaver

but in the passing of our everything.

i can’t walk into the night anymore there is always

something burning. a precise inhale i try to 

unscramble and fix you no i wont breathe

safely or don’t breathe at all.

temporary as a clock blended into the universal 

everyone is missing the original coat. i tell you to 

stay warm. free awaits among the drawn over paint

so gnarled we have to puzzle.

to carouse with a sleuth whom we can’t know 

why embed ourselves with distress when it will

come knocking anyway with a distinct knock signifying 

repercussions tainted by an unsteady grandpa 

that revels in the armor of his justice. 

a jailhouse sits on the base of daft mountain

as we watch from our niche and cross out

answer after answer. 

because the beauty of real time and the 

beauty of no one knows why. 

the real mystery lies behind 

every broken eye. 

apple picking

a myopic view of an all black augury, 

i pull away and orbit somewhere.

an inherent trait, my excuse

to seclude. 

a place far into the forgotten fields of

myself i find two apparitions fixed

like october scarecrows. 

the birth of wonder i can’t be

full yet.


The Omnicity’ of Two

she melts like the earth,
forming clots inside
the       sinister valleys
of her lover’s fingerprints;

a childlike omnipotence.

you are a flower
inside my mothers favorite
is where i can
love rain.

your stare,
silently floating
two demons addicted to

i see you more,

like we exist somewhere else,

like we broke our chains,
like we feel love again.

our experiences mirror
the first sip
after a drought.


a blank canvas.

happiness is laced inside the walls
of our symbiotic asylum.

it’s us.

like our 
was never stolen.

like you never left.

(Source: afewfailures)



underneath my silhouette
it’s always “liek” dusk.

i hear a marching band in the fog,
a damp echo; some dilute

i still exhale you.

an illuminated allegory
i will forever see.

i sense it’s fundamental,
like an imperfect cell
wanning away inside;
my smoke filled lungs.


Poise in Oak

an idle wave to a crony
is how i begin each
expedition to.

maple and oak render
benevolence as we
exchange us.

masters of this realm.
i sense their silent
rhetoric built
with time and
in discipline. 

making no bones, the
forest amplifies a familiar tone;
a quaint display; a 
hero’s welcome.

vermillion leaves trickle down
like confetti i sense

august percussion echoes
freely from inside
the nebulous river,
keeping time so perfectly,
it can’t exist.

birds attempt (chirp__!_)
mimicking some grand
organ but I
am not so sure. 

a fortuitous birth and
an ample forest,
i owe everything.

"Folly Stamp" By Prageeta Sharma

Clatter into the window this late night.  
We were flabbergasted, tired
of the newly-minted drunks and meth-kids
with squeals for fists.

We live downtown, 
exposed to the alley. 

Nothing dangerous, and we were not alarmed. 
But still, every sound turns us into pins on points,

a sleep of figuring out: deeply felt turns:
wrestling little autocrats

that fly or stick—nothing more than thistles 
or wasps, but a sting is always a sting.

It must be we who are having the trouble: 
it’s our estranged perception of thinking.

Are we actually perceiving?  
Do things truly mock us?
Or do we ourselves mock? 

We must find our own modernization bill, 
a folly stamp that appeases us with its generous 
humanizing. We can be reckless, we can overreact.

Let’s not be bewildered by the graces 
that sometimes leave us,
by our paunches that are not always gargantuan, 
that we haven’t sewn shame in to suit our false selves. 

The fit of relief or deferment is near. 
What we find next is important. 
What would happen if our window 
arranged a life for us—
something intentionally
on view. 

And we looked out at the reconciliation 
of the rest of the world: 
Wasps and drunks and meth-kids
arm in arm in arm in arm.

jester season

i am just another
clay pigeon
in the skies
of you.

a jester
of himself. 

You loved me once.

You loved me once.

"In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality."

Franz Kafka to Milena (via man-of-prose)



RIP sweet prince




RIP sweet prince


(via man-of-prose)

clouded on sub away

a monotonous descent
into a lonesome state
of being.

melancholic halls
filling nostrils with
dirt and static.


a tiny moving human
people act differently when
they are underground.

this city is an uncomfortable ceiling,
a mysterious

at night, shards of
glass dance to a
hollow beat

as the dreams of
my piers are buried
away into the
manic concrete.

Going to start making short prose on art here and there.

Going to start making short prose on art here and there.