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.

a grey and orange ghost
slips unfettered between
this world and
a quiet place
of muted shadows
hidden
until eyes like marbles
blink into existence
and my cheshire kitten
slinks into my room
with no more whisper
than silk on glass
liquid

i’m searching for words that do not exist
grasping for something in the matterless air
they call it writer’s block
but i feel much more disconnected than blocked
as if overnight someone had unplugged
all the cords to my creativity
my mind feels dim and dissolved
a damp empty space
having no mass but seeping into my heart
the nothingness fills me up
and i stare hopelessly
at the blank page in front of me

incorrect
something that should have
never been
incorrect
a being of disillusioned
experiences and truths

inaccurate
proportions and measurements which
define me as a logical fallacy
inaccurate
colors and hues which
do not correspond with my inner being

imprecise
ideas and beliefs spilled onto a canvas
with little to no direction
imprecise
translations of my true self
with no attempt to fix it

mistake
didn't think it through
because I didn't think I had to
mistake
didn't predict the real outcome
because I thought they'd understand

failure
with nothing more than a swift brush stroke
and some applied use of sense of self
failure*
was the only thing I could think of
as I opened my eyes by the burning candle light

I stood and read the letters
with a pinch of disappointment
of no candles or flowers to buy
I looked up the sky and believed
that beyond the thick
combust are billion of stars
scintillating for the dying hearts
and the roses
that was left languished
on the floor

a remnants of photos
remained
with notes and mournful regrets
flooded the walls

the world just keeps going
which is supposed to
No one heard me cry
for the souls had left the atrocious lane behind

I touched the petals
that used to bloom
and throes my heart
that life has to presume