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.

untitled sadness 03


The waves we made
ended in killings
of all the people
we claimed to love.

open up your books to chapter everyone

drift in me,
after our wedding
flowers all die.

hold my head and
scream like you did
at your father.
////// ////// //////

a wind chime on a
new england porch
in the fall.
an only child’s attempt to
resonate inside;
feel something.

desperate cries flood the
universe with waves; she hears.
the unknown,
the master of discipline,
a professor of infinite depth.

live inside an
amplified heart.

the unknown will hear
the poets.