The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

we witness things from our frame of minds
but we can never foresee what transpires next,
in view of the fact that life thoroughly shackles us
and takes our souls to the fathomless world.

people ought to seek for answers
though most of the time,
they go missing & empty handed
and will forever remain a mystery unsolved.

like events in our lives that manifests significantly
engraves marks, stains, and wounds of the past,
in a way our minds
would never cease to forget.
— g.c.

the ones that constantly play on my mind,
now etched inside his head
he'd make you feel profound things
converting a blank page into a room full of thoughts and visualizations
waiting to be filled with intention
by the way his fingertips graze over canvas
strokes, hues, and lines
every exquisite detail
the lead scraping across the paper
shadows that protrude the overall portrait
contemplating to contrast the grays
forming vivid illustrations no one would ever envision
the paper comes to life before my eyes
it's like he never had to use his own hands
to touch each & every part of me
i only see him in monochrome
but he penetrates me with all kinds of hues

i hope he realizes that he himself, is art. my art.

do we conceive
each other
in such
different ambiance?
like how eyes aim
to see souls instead of faces,
bodies and flesh
how different our concepts
of beauty would be
detaching away
from the standards
and norms of society
such appearances are neglected
interiors over exteriors
if only we see thru things
beyond nakedness
bound from expectance
when one
does not feel a stranger
of her own skin
— g.c.

"- then i learned that society is broken, not me."