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 little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
bloom — where you are planted
and from this your growth is reminded
you may think that your flower will wither
but i'd always be here to sprinkle you with water
bloom — wherever you may be
like a sweet nectar that entices the bee
preparing for the awakening of spring
filled with endless capabilities you bring
bloom — for everyone to see
but also for you and me
together we soar and nobody else can destroy
flourishing with you, my f l o w e r b o y .
est 04/03/21 - a rhyming poem.
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.
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
like how eyes aim
to see souls instead of faces,
bodies and flesh
how different our concepts
of beauty would be
from the standards
and norms of society
such appearances are neglected
interiors over exteriors
if only we see thru things
bound from expectance
does not feel a stranger
of her own skin
"- then i learned that society is broken, not me."
first poem in this platform! follow me, let's be mutuals :)
— The End —