On Prose.

Prose is what happens when poetry cannot.

When a surging wave of inexplicable words takes over you.
When you are ready to look yourself in the eye without revealing yourself to the seer.
When you wish to drown in your thoughts and accept them, for once.
When you open your heart out to the reader and yet not let him read you.
When you cannot contain the depth of your depths.

When her golden brown hair leave a trail of desire on your bare chest.
When the ink from the pen spills even when you’re not writing.
When his naked skin touches your naked skin and sends shivers down your spine.
When the infinity of the sky is as meager as the abyss within which you dwell.
When the mere thought of him makes you soar.
When the wetness of words combined with your erect emotions makes you cum.

Prose is what happens when poetry cannot.

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