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We are not born with fire—
we choose it.
In the silence of doubt,
in the ache of waking pain,
we reach for a flame
that doesn’t burn,
but builds.

Some of us burn
not to destroy,
but to light paths
no one dared walk before.
We carve names into time
with trembling hands
and unwavering hearts.

Creation is not in limbs,
but in vision.
In the breath that shapes words,
in the mind that dares to dream
even as the body folds.

But even fire,
no matter how bright,
must one day soften
into ember.
Even warriors
deserve a gentle sunset.

So when peace calls your name—
when stillness becomes the goal,
not the obstacle—
may you rest with pride,
not regret.

For the world remembers
those who chose to live
with courage,
to create in the dark,
to love in the storm.

And to my friend,
who walks with wisdom and weight,
know this:

You are not fading.
You are finishing—
and every step leaves warmth behind.
This poem is dedicated to a man whose honesty lit something in me. It's for anyone facing the weight of time, illness, or doubt—and still choosing to speak, to create, to feel. This is about the fire we carry, the peace we seek, and the love that binds it all together in the end. Much respect, always.
Asher Graves Apr 11
What defines a man?
Someone with dignity? Someone with shame?
Someone vulnerable, or “someone” in vain?
A vague answer—I'll be honest then,
Society’s standards? Cruel and dishonest, man.

You speak up—you’re disregarded.
You make an effort—you’re outsmarted.
You do nothing? You're called a ******* regardless.
Try to hold ground? Your stance gets blasted.

Vulnerability. Breakdowns. Mental fatigue.
A man’s life—just pain with no relief.
A faint smile, a brief breath, penned on a sheet.
That’s what this is, boys—so buckle your seats while I preach.

A man's life is a lie.
His smile, his words—his emotions, all a disguise.
He lies because he cares.
He finds ways to fix, not vanish into thin air.

His day begins with thoughts of his loved ones,
And ends with them.
Yet the only flowers he ever receives
Are laid at the end.

Poor appreciation. No oxytocin—
That's how he lives.
All he wants is to see his family smile,
To make ’em proud, and meet every wish.

Loving children and an adorable wife,
Still, he gets caught in conflict and strife.
Trapped in the webs, looking for light—
He knows no matter how loud he shouts,
It’s all silent. Mute. No sound in sight.

He doesn’t complain like he used to do.
This masked way of living? He’s grown used to.
A constant tug-of-war with everything.
Wearing the mask, that smile, and the pretending.

’Cause this is a judgmental world,
Where male discomfort is dismissed as vile.
No one cares for a man—
“That’s just how they are,” says Society with a smile.

“A man should be tough.” “Stop being so weak.”
“Only a weakling cries.”
Why these beliefs?
Is a man not human? Can’t he break—
Even once, without being called fake?

Can’t these so-called standards vanish for a jiffy?
Let the noise hush, just for an iffy.
The situation’s looking a bit tricky.
So much for equality—when the loudest cries dissolve a man too quickly.

No offense to victims, but truth gets murky when empathy turns picky.
We need balance, not blame—before the silence gets sticky.
So much for fairness, when power plays the sound—
And those holding the mics are just money-hungry hounds.

But let me leave you with names they forgot to pronounce—
Prometheus, who stole fire so men might renounce
The cold chains of darkness, gave light for free,
And was punished by gods for daring to see.

Or Sigurd the Valiant, who slew Fáfnir the beast,
A man, not divine—just brave, to say the least.
He bathed in the blood, understood the birds’ song,
Betrayed by the world, yet stood strong all along.

These weren’t monsters. These were men.
Not flawless—but free, with a truth in their pen.
So next time they say, “All men are the same,”
Remember the fire. Remember the flame.
One man can burn,
And still change the game.
                                                           ­                      -Asher Graves

— The End —