A lonely buoy sways in the waves of indecision,
bobbing up and down, and up and down
pacing back and forth, and back and forth,
from side to side and again under the amber road, moonlit.

The tides are calm but large, but the buoy doesn't sink.
It's prepared, designed, taught what to do
in moments like these: to swim back,
back to shore, back to safety, turn a back
to the great, lethal liquid land beyond our own.

But this time, that glow of golden light,
that hails from the incandescent majesty of the gloomy night-sky,
goes far into and over the horizon, glistening in the void sea,
glimmering on the bouy like golden lunacy,
capturing it, alluring it, cradling it gently,
shining on it like glitter and exposing it to a totally novel colour,
totally radiating and tranquilising — or so it would be
if not for the distant, real winds.

The such similar shade of orange, shared
by the sky-light and the streetlamps,
depict a tale of unfulfilled greatness and mimicry
(though I don't mean to insinuate that the lunacy is itself not enlightened)

Perhaps this is the way, to mimic
a mere fraction of the power of the giants
whose great shoulders we stand upon without gratitude,
unaware of how unfulfilled and untouched
and unkept our passions meet end.

The buoy battles with risk and reward, screaming and cursing
silently,
crashing out on the waves of both sides,
ripping and parting its poor soul;
the dark void at the horizon that divides the path
from the moon,
invites it, coaxes it, charms and enchants it to take a chance:
the leap of faith.

But the buoy sways on in the wind.

Beating a stigma
 with a stereotypical stick — as they tell me  
“Do stick to your kind” if I ever hope to suite in.
But trying to suite in never really means you’ll fit in —
it just means you’re dressed for the part, and not the room.

Because when the interior world doesn’t match
the exterior’s performance, the walls echo as a stranger.
    Being “mysterious” is still a bit of a mystery to me —
Especially when society’s own boundaries blur like
  breath on glass. So they’ll corner you with regulation
and call it freedom. But the regulars aren’t in order.

Again, boundaries do blur,
  like lines drawn with wet chalk.
Regulations - written by those who keep changing the page.
Still, society will corner you and call it “open space.”
The regulars aren’t in order. They call us too young to be this
    tired, by this idealistic age, that has us exhausted by reality.

Some mornings, I hate being told “Good morning.”
It sounds too bright for the kind of dark I’m carrying around.
My face? Is mundane by necessity. And I’ve surrendered to
the grey — because bright ideas can get you darkened these days.

Memories always haunt us —
   but we never get the gift of being ghosted by our pasts.
We are phantoms in the present, shadows behind the future,
hoping to step into the light without burning.

But let’s make light of the struggles we face, and not
just fight demons in the dark. The dark is their territory —
but the light is where we name things without shame.
Cos in the weekly sense — you wear your weakness
  like cologne, but cover it in the smile of a pretend-bright today.

Time...

Tell me — how much does it cost? ****, I don’t know.
I’m just trying to keep watch on the blessings I’ve got —
but more and more, they seem to stretch thin... like needle
and thread, barely holding the seams of me together.

I’m fading in connection. A rock flips — and I’m ******,
yet still trying to show decent manners. A “decent citizen”
in the dirtiest world — where the canopy of utopia is just
the Tree of Life man’s always itching to cut down…to sell
its fruits, to chop its wood, just to make pencils — so we
can write stories about it in our edited history books.

Love…

Tell me — what’s a dropout lover, anyway? Not one
who failed love — but one who stopped trying to graduate
from failed attempts. A degree in hopeless romanticism,
and a Master's in being a bachelor — but if time is really
worth it all, then tell me… what all do you really have?

Just a handful of yourself and a whole lot of doubt.
Now... what’s that about?

Untie me from your thoughts —
acting loose from your love;
  not what I should’ve known.
Knot-tongued,
  unable to say what I’m really feeling
    inside the chambers of my heart.
Dumpling cheekbones
  feeding off your smile —
    it's a soft scene.
But all of our best actions
  still aren’t worth a movie screen.
And aren’t we looking
  a little too scripted
    in front of our peers?
You —
  my original promissory note.
Please take note
  of every step you take in my mind,
    scribbling down your movements
      like wandering footnotes.
____________

There’s also the shaking trial of courtship —
  in the jaws of both judges.
You say what you want —
  and it turns out to be
    exactly what I don’t.
You try to live in my thoughts,
  but I’m still renting that house.
No roots, no keys —
  just memories on a month-to-month lease.
____________

To say every man is just, "a dog" —
  their barking mingles on,
chasing their own tails,
  returning to the ones who wronged them
    as if they were wrong.
But the dog’s got a bone to pick,
  and it contests every bone.
____________

Truth is —
this, like our love,
  was never meant
    to be a love poem.

They said, out of concern,
“Don’t be too different—
But also be you.”
How do I do both
When they are the same?

To be myself is to be different.
To dim one is to **** the other.
So I stay silent, still—
Caged by the image they built of me.

I want to rise,
Put people in their place,
But I’m scared—
Scared to shatter
Their carefully crafted illusion.

So I freeze.
My inner diva
Glitters behind glass,
While I nod, polite,
And shrink into safety.

Only a few
Get close enough to see my rage—
The irony?
It flares at them the most.
Because I trust them.
Because I can.

I. TARNISH
We procreate fate, from bones to belief,
Wearing faith like a second skin— daily
soiled, weather-worn by noise and news.

Socially religious; actions are mere talk
we preach in later posts, and not prayers.
We remember songs line for line, forgetting
words to the Word, that once shaped us.

II. INTERROGATION
Where is your faith? —asks the heart.
Where will you be in five years? —asks the mind.

And there—between tears and time— laziness
holds patience, procrastination becomes a religion.
As I wear the mask of a man knowing what he’s
doing, but the fit is too perfect –to ever feel like
Truth.

III. CONFESSION
O Lord, hear the slow-breaking cry of my soul,
lest I forget the sound of my own weeping.

My prayers, once daily bread, are now scattered
crumbs, too few, too faint to carry my mourning,
Into the morning. And you won't hear the dirge
in my less frequent prayers or their “Amen.”

Take the time—don’t just spend it— to watch your grind,
These dreams are brewed, steeped behind these caffeine eyes.
Still, as the sunrise scripts its golden lines, my gaze still delays
Having to put on a daily mask; trapped in yesterday’s disguise.
All of these borrowed hours lace my breath, thinned and worn,
All these seconds spent on second-guessing myself; I’m torn—
Barely paying attention to obvious life lessons due in reflection;
Skipping those lessons, now I pay with life's collection.

As for facing my many regrets, it proves facing the glass—
But not all mirrors can clearly cut clean through the past.
Truths are warped, wrapped for the present, for who peer—
Peering in, fragile as much, cracked, and smeared with fear.
We search within ourselves, as all seekers must willingly do,
Searching for a love clear as glass — one that is sharp, and true.
As peach blossoms fall, and small stones roll, know: that through
The times of picking yourself up, some dust gets stuck on you.

The world isn’t so clear, especially if man’s clarity is uninvolved;
Profiting from all our scars – given titles hanging over ourselves
So many times, that prophets need to remind us of who we are
Profits, or prophets, but it all depends on who’s worth you trust.

Body:

“The thing is—you all can never compete with me.
I came to be when he no longer craved to be him.
I was forged as reminder, a warning:
That the fall would be brutal if he slipped even an inch.
But he stood tall, brimming with will and flame.
Now look at what you’ve all done to him.”

The body cries in agony.
The pain went away—
But the scars never did.

Mind:

“The boy was prepared, but green—
He pulled through, yes, but it cost him everything.
And now you boast of being unbroken?
It was I who inhaled the fumes,
Took in the blades of thought,
Endured the bruises that whispered ruin beneath the skin.
While you remained, stagnant and crude—
A venom sapping every ounce of his fortitude.
Like a Geist twined with Grue,
I was meant to imagine, to narrate, to survive and renew.
But your pride will drown us in this undertow.
You act like this is all a game?
No wonder they gave you the role they did.”

The mind counters, fire in its breath.
The mental quivers with angst.
The memories went away—
But the scars never did.

Spirit:

“Me? I was never told to share—only to care.
Maybe I came too late.
I always prayed for our fair,
But the universe doesn’t barter in balance.
It demands variation, disruption,
To witness, to scatter, to shimmer through us.
It hums a silence so vast it aches—
Searching for vessels to cradle its flair.
It has no morality, no mercy,
Only the echo of what it wills.
What we do is all it ever notices.
We are its muse,
Dancing to a symphony that stretches beyond the stars.”

The Spirit spoke, and silence fell.
The body and mind, though bruised and bitter,
Rekindled their uneasy affair.
But the Spirit wept—not out of pain,
But for the truth laid bare.

It was a dilemma no one could deny.
The tune was silent—
Yet louder than ever.
An unheard melody drifting from afar.
A Symphony of Scars.

                                                              -Asher Graves

Lies are mercy, aren't they?
Little bandages over wounds too raw to touch,
soft words wrapped around a blade-
because what's a little blood between friends?

They call them shadows.
but don't they have weight?
Haven't they sat beside us at dinner tables,
held our hands at funerals.
kissed our foreheads goodnight?
Haven't they whispered in our ears-
"Shh. The truth would only ruin this."

People wear them like armor,
stitched with good intentions
because nothing says I care
like a well-tailored deception.
But armor rusts.
Tongues slip.
And no one likes the taste of old lies.

They lie because the world doesn't want the truth
Because the mirror would rather blur the cracks
than reflect the hollow-eyed thing staring back.
Because I'm fine
is easier than I haven't slept in days.
Because It's okay
is a free pass to avoid confrontation.
Because some truths burn.
and some people would rather drown in gasoline
than risk lighting the match.

Lies keep love alive, don't they?
One says, I'll never leave.
The other doesn't ask What if you do?
One says. I trust you.
They both pretend it's true.
Betrayals become misunderstandings.
Silence becomes space.
Absence becomes freedom.
Say it enough, and it sounds real.
Believe it enough, and maybe it doesn't hurt.

But lies don't stay small.
They grow ribs
Grow teeth.
Learn to walk on their own.

They slip from tongues like prayers-
practiced, automatic.
holy in their own way.
They turn love into a contract.
guilt into a leash,
truth into an inconvenience.
They say, You are safe.
They say. You are right.
They say. You had no choice.

Then-
a crack in the mask,
a break in the voice,
a silence too loud to ignore.

And suddenly, the truth isn't some mythical beast,
not a monster waiting under the bed.
If's just there, standing in the doorway.
waiting. Watching.
Tired of being the villain in
someone else's story.

Lies aren't mercy, are they?
Just wounds left open too long-
festering, rotting, waiting to be called by
their real name

I chased a river that flowed not for me,
A desert thirst, in need of a touch,
But it never quenched, nor did it set me free—
A ghost of water, the hollow's crutch.

Yet still I ran, for the race was the relief,
And the thirst was never gone,
The closer I came, the deeper my grief,
But I knew, I knew, I had to move on

One side craves the fleeting touch,
Another longs for something real,
Both of them, a tangled clutch,
Waging war inside my mind's steel.

I feel the pull, the burn, the tug,
Both sides whispering to my soul—
One says, "Stay," the other says, "Let go,"
And I am left, alone, with no control

The screen glows with false embrace,
A fleeting balm to soothe my pain,
A world of warmth in pixel’s grace,
But as it fades, so does the gain.

The comfort, fleeting, like morning mist,
It wraps me up, then fades away—
But in that warmth, my heart persists,
To search for solace, come what may

Beyond the Glass
I seek a hand I cannot touch,
A voice that whispers through the screen,
In virtual spaces, I crave so much,
The love I’ve never yet seen.

But still, I reach, I yearn, I chase,
For something more than pixel's light—
I long to find a sacred space,
Where hearts can meet beyond the night

What am I but fragments, torn,
Pieces scattered in the dust?
I need to rebuild, from what I’ve mourned,
Relearn the way, and find the trust.

I see the cracks, but there’s no fear,
Only a chance to fill the space—
To build anew, to reappear,
To find my strength, to find my place

A clash of needs, a war of wants,
One says to chase the fleeting thrill,
Another urges, “Wait, be strong,”
The heart is torn, the soul stands still.

For what is comfort but a cage?
And what is pain but growth’s sweet sting?
To choose the short-term for the wage,
Or face the future, and let it sing?

I wander through the uncertain haze,
The road unknown, but filled with choice,
A path unmarked, in shadowed maze,
I seek a light, I seek a voice.

What is it all, but one grand test?
The answers fade before my eyes—
But in the struggle, in the quest,
I find the truth beneath the lies

I stare into the glass that cracks,
And find a face I do not know—
The cracks are me, but not the facts,
The truth is hidden in the glow.

Who am I, when all is gone?
A shadow lost, a broken dream?
But in the void, I carry on,
For in my mind, I still may gleam.