If I’m a walking lesson,
well, you never learned to read.
We waste away the hours,
you just take and take to feed.

You claim that I am guarded,
all traps and tricks to test,
but you charge ahead so reckless,
never slowing, never rest.

You bleed against my defenses-
spikes, blades, and trap doors.
Yet instead of asking questions,
you argue who hurts more.

If I’m your greatest lesson,
the one you won’t discern,
is it that you fear to stay here,
or to leave and ache, and yearn?

Grief is a cyclic spell.
It loops.
It spares none.
It's inevitable.
This poem follows through each stage of grief like a spell—
Untamed.
Unbound.

— The First Stage —

Burdens are discreet, like shadows they creep,
Disguised as excuses, seeping in deep, shaking core beliefs.
Should I care about them? I don't feel the need.
I am not in the deep!

I am so close to the...
To the conclusion!
To the retribution!

Indeed.
I know what I'm talking about.
For I'm not weak.
I do not bleed.

— The Second Stage —

Reenacting noir violence as something prophetic,
Proportional to the lethargy and lapse in memory.

Craving the caves as they
cave in melancholy.
Framing the phrase as they
phase in verbally.
Adding the daze as they
laze in physically.
Blaming the place but they
can't pace gently.
Desperate to bridge the gap so they
race profusely.

Virtuous? Why should I care about them?
I don't feel the need!
They never did care for me anyway—
even when I was drowning in deep!!

But now when I am so close to the...
To the destruction!
To the retribution!
They care? *****!

Indeed.
I know what they're talkin' about.
I am not weak.
And I refuse to bleed.

— The Third Stage —

Knowing the taste of fear they
made a note mentally.
Faster they ran to master it tactfully.
Dreaming how good it will feel if it ends silently.
Beaming with delusion they fell prey to cult activity.
Worshiping day and night, swallowed by ritualistic vanity.

Failure in results added fuel to the aggressive analogy.
Looking for meaning brewed life into inhumanity.
Myth or not, this bizarre journey
will lead to a dark ending.

But who's sane enough to reject the voluntary heretic ascendency?
Forget transparency—lowered guards breed corruptancy.

If I shall care enough, will I be granted a reprieve?
I can no longer swim this deep.

Almost there...
For the happiness.
For the redemption.
Away from the slip.

Tell me I'm not too late.
Tell me I'm doing great.
Tell me I'll be okay.
Tell me I won't bleed.

— The Fourth Stage —

Defence is irrelevant when you're deemed unworthy;
Among these foolish creatures none have a slither of sanctity.
Only the demonic hymn echoes through the monastery.

Surviving Curates pray for mercy.
The massive inflow of broken kin brings tears in the building.
The priest stays silent though, which enrages the victims.
They heckle at him and start grumbling.

Seeing the teary-eyed priest, they realise their wrongdoings.
Helpless and bound, the victims cry out for safety.

Whatever should I ever care for,
for nothing holds a meaning.

Am I drowning?
Am I swimming?
I'm lost in the deep.

So close to the...
To the silence.
The oblivion of reckoning.

Wish I was strong enough to change a thing.
But I was weak from the beginning.
Thus, I bleed.

— The Fifth Stage —

Eerily, the bewitching entity distorts it with ranting—
The entity, namely self-pity, flourishing,
Birthed by burdens, fed by the masses' frolicking tendencies.
Exuberates an overwhelming aura, seemingly understanding.

Careful—this is the seed of self-loathing.

"Verily, must it be prompting?
Must it be coaxed with hoaxes, propelling redundancy?"

You think no one resisted this hypnotic screeching?
In this abominable world brave warriors took a standing.

Vexed and perplexed, anxiety stacked,
emotional wrecks, Reaper's back,
falsehood's flag, regrets that drag,
weaker to help.

Yes, I care.
Care, because I know what it brings.
Care, for we all swam through the deep.
Care, for I am so close...
To the end and the beginning.
Care, for now I know the meaning.
Care, for I know what I have become.

Neither weak
Nor strong.

Care, because I must bleed.

For—
Burdens are discreet, like shadows they creep...

                                                                                             -Asher Graves

The darkness before a storm, as if an entity was about to form


I found it so peaceful,when the world became so calm,yet hectic

When the birds started struggling for a shelter,even in a place so chaotic


When the eyes were full of joy, and wonder,seeing even a glimpse of thunder


When the sky began to roar with all of its might,

And the mother became so restless,as the child couldn’t bear the fright


When it finally,let nature feel its worth

When the people,for a duty,kept running back and forth


When it poured and poured until it flooded the brood


As it poured so harsh, yet the children played happily

Some watched silently,praising it unknowingly


The trees were full of life, in the end of this priceless strife


Finally,the sun began to show its witness,clearing a realm of darkness


The flow of existence,again became normal,leaving behind something unknown so dismal.

Stuck in a cycle
like a song on repeat
until you get bored of it.
Thinking nothing else,
nothing new
is ever gonna come.

Stuck in a cycle,
where i get better
then worse
than ever before.

Stuck in a cycle,
yearning for recovery,
but at the same time
wanting to get worse
and worse
until the cycle breaks.

Stuck in a cycle,
never knowing
if and how it will end.

looking at others
didn’t know it bothered

cause when they start to talk
saying things like 'I wish he’d call'

it hurts
I know I can't say that
cause they are just living their life
happy they look
blooming inside

nothing can destroy that
at least that’s how they feel

I should mind my own business
but-
Should I warn them?
cause it's going to be worse
but for some reason they don’t see the curse

give it time
and everything crashes down
just like…
always