call me,
tell me
how i wronged
you—

paint me
as the villain,

but we’re both
living in sin.

you take this
like an attack,
like i’ll let you
down

one
last
time.

but listen—
there’s nothing
left to lose,

and no one’s
in the right
this time.

i rose
from the coffin
i buried myself in.

got tired
of searching
for miracles,

'cause all i'm
left with
are endings
gone bad.

and i’m so
**** tired

of spiraling
again.

so when
i told you
i needed space—

the last
thing
i wanted

was
to hear
from you.

You see, I’m naturally an introvert — quiet corners, deep
thoughts, the type to overthink a handshake. But life? Life
keeps putting me on stages, in conversations that feel like
marathons for my soul. So yeah, stepping out as an extrovert?
That’s not performance, that’s survival. A daily challenge
with no dress rehearsal.

I’m a softie — but not the breakable kind. No, this softness?
It’s pressure-cooked from hard times. It knows the weight of
silence, and how to turn pain into patience. I’m not here to
pretend to be hard — I’m here to show that being real is rarer.

Now, let’s talk love. I’m a full-blown lover boy — heart open,
arms wide, playlist ready. But don’t get it twisted — I’m not in
the business of having my love used as someone else’s stepping
stone. I’ve retired from being the emotional charity.

And my smile? Oh, it’s got layers. A whole palette of moods.
Bright for the world, but the darker shades? Those are reserved.
A private gallery. Only for the ones I cherish, the ones who earn
the right to see me unfiltered.

So if you meet me — don’t just notice the calm, or the kindness,
or the charm. Know there’s a storm I’ve already walked through
to be standing this still.

I’m just the dreamer, lost in the static of the world—
a perfect schemer trying to carve a shape from shadows,
trying to make something of my own in a place that feels
prewritten. But who really knows what it means to lose a piece
of your ******* soul—

not metaphor, not poetry— but that quiet, splintering
ache when belief begins to bleed.

And that’s the cruelest part: when the dreaming continues,
but the dreaming itself feels so ******* lonely.
When every idea echoes in an empty room, and you realize
the silence is louder than your hope.

Still— you dream. Not because it’s easy. Not because it
makes real sense. But because what else is left when the
world stops listening, and you still believe? A piece of
that dream!

An approach is a sentiment, not a calling of divine.
An opinion is valid only and only when one doesn't step out of line.
A figment of thought, a pristine smile—
Words are mere thoughts until one makes it worthwhile.

A question appears though? Let me put in some light.
Why do people make it a hot topic when it's not even their life?
Why make comments on what a person should do
If you're not a part of their day-to-day view?

Why act all Saint-like while you belittle them, causing strife?
You lack the basic mannerisms, yet have the audacity to lecture them on rights.
You play the role of a perfectionist, yet you've got so much to hide.
You judge everybody while your own personality has nothing that shines.

Yet, you have the gall to ridicule someone who spent their entire life
Confined to a few meters of land, day and night.
Complaining they don’t provide the family with basic things—
But look at how much they work every day, without help from anyone.

Why does that not come to light, huh?
Making a mockery of them, manipulating others with your lies—
When they did nothing wrong, yet they have to put on a brave face and take it all in,
So that the family stays, despite the brutal conditions they are in.

Not like you’ll ever understand the genuine good in plain sight.
Because of people like you, they can't even take a break, much less a vacation with loved ones.
You're always there to critique their work for a fun laugh—what a dreadful sight.
Yet the people only believe what you say.

Such is this era, such is this life.
You play victim, and the victim gets the dice.
Once again, they're thrown on the same pedestal of hate and loathe.
But now they've lost the sense of fright,
For this is yet another day in their life.

A tragic tale that is very much alive,
A tale to which this right-preaching society turns a blind eye—
A tale of Pride & Prejudice.
                                                                                      -Asher Graves

Freedom, they said, was for all,
But it became a privilege—
rationed, conditional.
Laws were written in the ink of fear,
Meant to bind us but never them.
Papers dictated our worth,
Time slots our movements.
For what felt like endless seasons,
My world shrank to walls and whispers.
A yard became my horizon,
A car my only escape.
Truth was silenced,
Questions outlawed.
They called it protection,
But it felt like exile.
The Constitution became fragile glass,
Shattering under the weight of hypocrisy.
Freedom was not free;
It was a cage lined with lies,
Its door held shut by fear.
I lost more than days—I lost trust.
The land of the free stood still,
Its anthem drowned in passive compliance.

With a boat made of hope
I'll go sailing
In the search of love
If my heart gets wrecked and crushed
From the storm of empty promises
I'll bury it in the depth of my chest
like treasures from a shipwreck
For you to find it and peace it back together