i don't consider myself much of an author
though you could call me a poet
i have a book, turns out
i guess i've been living under its illusion
but today, after three months of it being public
i held it in my hands and went through the pages

i'm not super proud, i'll admit
it's not perfect, barely anything
if i were to compare my current writing with that of the book
i'd call myself childish when i thought it could look
poetic or pass off as poetry
i'm no professional, barely perfection
but the title does say perhaps we could be anything

so here i was, reading through, found a good few
but most seemed to lack the fervor that i thought
when i penned down that thought
and once again i wondered, am i supposed to be proud of this thing?
thing, huh. really low of me to put it that way
when i started writing and it was a beginner's sake
no plans, thoroughly unrequired

i know many creators
ones who are artists, and they almost always mention
“i'm not really proud of that one” —
the particular one that marked their beginning
but i guess the beginnings are the time capsules
that lead to more such evenings
when you finalize a draft, finalize a piece,
put it out there wondering maybe it still lacks it
but the heartbeat — of that moment when it's passed on and upon —
maybe not everyone would critique
are we ever really proud of all that we do?
do we really accept it?

then this particular vision erupted in my head
i held the book, held it in my hands
and it was out there, and anyone could peek into my head
it escalated — vibrant imagery indeed
i was left to accept that if anyone wanted,
they could have had parts of me
the specific ones inside the book
and the ones in the title
and in the words
and in the emotions that led it on

and even though it wasn't everything, not as i'd desired
maybe someone could find a piece they loved in there?

perhaps it wasn't that bad of a choice
not super proud again — but hey, i'm a poet!
i've been writing more, learning better, and listening loads
i think i might be onto something
like let it enfold you by charles bukowski
god, i don't know the man
not his works or of any other plans
but i do know that words stick
the meaning they carry does too

and if i say i love the book (yet to like it)
will you read it for me too?

I wanna make ****** songs
to sing my poetry
but I can't find any chords
that match my symphony.

So spread your wings
and give me creativity,
cause all I need
is inspiration;
an epiphany.

Play a few chords
on your guitar.
Please,
sing to me.

I’ll always be thankful
for the embrace
your words tuck me in.

Maybe someday,
I’ll be the one behind
the mic
singing
poetry.

I wonder what the pages I left hanging feel.
All of the things I promised I would write on it — gone just like that.
Does it still have the faith in me?
Will it ever be able to trust someone else if they found it?

I feel sorry for those pages,
but I do have a reason!
I may not be the best person there is,
but I do wish for every page to be finished —
pages full of words, proud and filled.

But if I were to deliberately finish one
just for the sake of finishing it —
won't that be unfair to the page?

Therefore, I made a painful decision:
to leave it unfinished!
Unfinished it may be, so,
but at least it will still have the essence of something meaningful.

I hope the page forgives me
for what I took away from it.
But I never had a better choice.

After all,
it is my fault.

                                                                                   -Asher Graves

There is this thing about spiraling;
isn't it beautiful in a way?
I am like a ballerina;
turning and twisting against the same spot;
turning it into poetry.

I sometimes wonder if I could make a poem out of all the metaphors
that have been scrapped because of what surrounded them.
If I could make a clique,
where they’d join strong
and leave their pasts.
Create a new country of love,
for all the unique metaphors
that died because they didn’t know better.

“I want to scream but forgot how to talk”

“The fear I felt drained in my blood
and I now have it tattooed in my tears”

“Opportunities that slip off your fingers
like fish in the depths of a lake”

“my fears were dissolved
into tears”

…

I scratch my scars
peel them off.
Turn them into scraps.

They never stop bleeding
because I don’t want them to.
This poetry is made of pain,
a style nib dipped in blood.

Verses made of hatred.
of
   pain;
           of
   blood

Some people need a sunset
and a coffee
to find their words.

What I need
is to fill my body with my own aches
until
        there
                 is
and                nothing
      I                            left
        can
               dip
                      my
                            words
                                       in
                                     ­       it.

Do you remember
that first poetry book?
Poemas de Otoño
     de
           Rubén
  Darío.

Do you remember when
you borrowed it?

“It was the first book
she ever read
         out
     of
            pleasure”

Your mother said.

It was the last one too,
wasn’t it?

Because you are gone now.
Gone forever.
Gone with no coming back,
gone with no reply,
with no promise of an
“I’ll meet you again”

Nothing.

You are no longer there to console me.
There is nothing to cling into.
No hope.

No hope except for a shallow dream,
the empty promise of the afterworld,
the holy gates.

I’d be religious
just for you.

But my brain was never made for blind belief.

So I’ll pull deidities aside
and grasp into poetry,
in a hope that
if heaven can’t be real
at least I’ll bring my demons
into earth.
Into paper.

Into
ink.

if i couldn’t - feel - for a day,
i wonder -
how i’d feel about it the next day;
to not have a memory i can name;
to come out the other side,
to realize -
the story’s still the same.

what would i even call such a day?
i guess - it’d still be a regular day...
for others to see me -
like, they’ve always seen me
under the sun.
just for a day,
put my soul out of the equation.    

i wonder where i’d even start,
with my mind, and my tongue -
both poles apart.
no self-esteem to feed,
nor the regrets -
to fight about.
****!
what would i even write about...?

You asked for this door.
One foot through the
Other trembling in the stars.

You can[not] have balance without halfway seeking defeat.

Stone's on the water now.

Float or sink.