I am bare and luminous,

The Tycho abyss on the moon. 

A thorougher of near consciousness,

a searcher of noctilucent trails.

The everness of Borges 

in the self annihilation of Kerouac.

But in the conundrum of skin cells,

I am that existential variant 

that questions the direction of time and

carves the art of disdain

into cloudburst sunsets;

a near bursting expanse 

of the lived and the to be lived

Alethia Prikodes by H.P. Lovecraft


Adrift and still,
I find direction in clouds
How they gain, they change,
They lose.

But my insides
Feel like a reversed compass;
of (dis)integration

Why do i have the need
To know the nameless cyclone
In between the muscles of my heart

Or wonder if the sky hurt
When it lost what it got
From the lakes, the rivers,
The seas.

Stone island

I, a dualist
Of river current
And cold creeks.
A multiverse of lone quiet birds
And stubborn, persistent trees.
The borrowed courage of
Withering stone dust,
A Dionysian wind child
High on self apparitions.
An amalgamation,
A molten glass identity of
the shards of glistening people
And razor edge terrains.


I struggle with the
The way people deny themselves;
Justifying their pain inducing choices
Romanticizing the very characteristics
That cause the unadaptable turmoil that sometimes creates art
But can also deny responsibility of feelings
Then I remember the experiences that need to be had
Revelations to be gasped, relationships of research to be committed.
I can’t be a therapist to the sources of my love
Least of all to my own natural disasters,
But i am a wisher : (as i disbelieve in the false security of hope)
The truth of self abandonment can be realized
Freedom can reign and the changing expanse of fear
May have a chance
Of acknowledgement and self acceptance.
I try and I wait- impassioned and disillusioned
Impatient, anxious and ignited.


I crave an image
Of waiting in impatience
Silently humming with desire
Where i can get inked
with someone’s eyes
As lost as me,
he will be.
I wait to stutter
and vibrate again
Compare hands
Rub fears
Together we will run
Counting river stones
Kissing tree moss
Breathing wordless dreams

Existence is not something which allows itself to be thought of from a distance; it has to invade you suddenly, pounce upon you, weigh heavily on your heart like a huge motionless animal – or else there is nothing left at all.
— Jean-Paul Sartre, from Nausea (via violentwavesofemotion)
Reblogged from Soaked In Soul
I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy.
The Flowers of Evil, Charles Baudelaire (via oorequiemoo)