it’s the way
the music moves me
the way
my body falls back,
it’s the feeling in my brain
that says
“play pretend”
that’s what my high is

it’s everything
i used to
want.
every word swallowed,
every mask i
put on,
unprocessed feelings
im scared to
***** up

To feel the hum of skin—
a rhythm under flesh,
bleeding ears of melodies
louder than memory.

Flaws fall, resting like
skipped notes on the floor
of silence. I said,
"I’m not a song, not a chorus,
not a chorus, nor the neat refrain
someone can replay.

Yet these songs in my ears—
they take me in, to teach me
how to belong.

I’m not a song, but maybe a lyric—
unfinished, still searching for the
right line. Perhaps in due time, to the
metronome of my heart.

i have this routine
whenever i ought to go out
the others get back to their homes
looking forward to relax
i go back to my own pit of sadness
a long, old friend
who waits with open arms, no pretense

it's like all the smiling i did just drains
and i stare at the hollow remains
a version of me that danced in light
buried now in soothing night

do i ever stop hating this self?
or is it a cycle, a slow-burning melt?

someone looked the wrong way maybe
or a phrase pierced through like it could slay me
i'm called dramatic
i'm told i feel too much
as if emotion's a crime
or a fragile crutch

is it too wrong to feel everything?
when nothing inside has clarity, only sting

maybe it's just me
wanting to be seen
beyond the mask
beneath the sheen
only if they read what i truly write
not skim the glitter
but sit with the fight

and no, i don’t have the charm or grace
i carry this weight in every space
like a broken doll
chipped and mute
hah—dolls, so fake
so absolute

porcelain skin, perfection’s lie
i’m the crack in that flawless sky

what do i fill this bottomless pit with?
when it breathes, when it lives, when it rips

swallowing joy before i even begin
and i’m so scared of ******* it up again
can’t even try to say it out loud
just too sad to cry
too lost in the crowd

will you please—hold me now?

it's hard to imagine someone could ever love me
behind what all i hide
and all that i wear
with all my insecurities
and everything i fear

hard to think that they'd see me
not as men usually do
but as a lover
with eyes as gentle as a father
and a faith unlike my mother
a lending hand like an older sibling
the caress of a grandparent—steady, forgiving

hard to imagine why anyone would ever love me
behind all the smiling i do
that they'd see how i cry the same nights too

and every time i look in the mirror
how i wish to skin me alive
how i listen to the same music
that makes me cry
how i sit in the dark with a straight face
train-crying in thought
'cause to do it out loud would disgrace

and how i press my hands over my chest
in a knot
hoping to find it was a hug
one i wouldn’t have to return
arms of someone who didn’t wish to heal me
just let me be
let me soak in all that’s wrong
and build me up again
not strong—just... me

someone who’d accept the exception i was and am
mostly broken, somehow functioning
reaching the ****** of feeling every single day
only to break down back again—no delay

someone who wouldn’t listen to what they think of me
would they have their own opinion, or just agree?

not judge me the way the jury around has done
forever and ever, verdicts spun
never has someone willed to seek behind the veil
and i don’t hide a lot
just the ugly truth of how i can be

will someone look at me
beyond the looks and their needs
beyond every reason why people usually look at me?
will someone... find me?

could i be someone's sunshine?
the one who makes their day a bit brighter
perhaps kind in a way—
i could help someone just by lending a hand
or bring down bridges
for them to cross the rivers?

the kinda sun that dries up the rain water
that's been stagnant in someone's life for years
or even better—wipe out the rain and the storm
and bring out a brighter day to their tomorrow?

could i be the sunshine—
or am i one?
'cause i've been trying so hard
then why do i get called out
as a pathological people pleaser?

i don't need no sunshine-cross-x-x-trope
but i wouldn't mind being the sun
in the life of the people i love
take away their clouds
bring them some fun

and if i could bring a smile to their face
have them bloom
like sunflowers do to sun's gaze
maybe—just maybe—my work in this life will be done.

the repetitive tasks are comfortingly funny
i'd hate eating the same meal for years
and yet
mixed up with others over days
somehow it's still years of the same taste

nothing really seems that repetitive
not like my sleeping schedule
all messed and stitched the same
or my weekdays in classes—
same buildings
same faces
same mindless chase

or even the harry potter movies
god, i’ve watched them on loop
again and again
like a hug from childhood

not to forget the books i've read
and the same kind of words
i've poured into notebooks and diaries
bleeding ink of similar sadness
with slightly different dates

i believe this repetitive life
might be the reason
the same old woes
hurt the same way
every time they boil over
the brink of my existence

and considering i've never broken out of this loop
not really
never run far enough
to feel new air

will i ever break out of the hollows
these same feelings and familiar situations
have brought me to—again and again?

Under these words – under pressure;
a reflective gaze cast on restless skies, days
becoming mirrors to us all — shining back
fragments we try to ignore.

Thoughts over water, drowning away in
myself — no lifeboat in sight, just ripples
of casual doubts, and this casual self that suits
the occasion of standing on business — as if
duty could silence the tide within.

Later rehearsals play out in the theatre of trials —
where life keeps testing, and those falling in love
in public become gossip in the rain.
Soft, but heard. Brief, but echoing.

Give us a little space; space exists to be used —
lest we start to feel abused by presence that
doesn’t pause to respect the silence.

There’s always a clue to finding yourself —
often tucked inside those who build you up,
brick by spoken brick — sticking to your side,
a friendship made of genuine glue.

And its occupants; are the ones who don’t
overstay their worth, who know how to shape
time into a home away from home.
Not permanent, but warm. Not perfect, but safe.

To share tears like rivers drawing in and from
one another —currents of grief and grace,
there are gifts in that flow. So appreciate those
in your life who’ve been so current —both
present and moving, flowing with you instead
of watching you sink.

Chandelier tears—pretty faces, pretty tears, pretty much falling,
crashing. Clear the room—this empty space sobers me; I’ve
been drunk on emotion again. The heavier ones don’t bring
me peace anymore, they only hit as hard as another strong
drink.

Should I speak? And in the same breath admit defeat—
these dark thoughts are so creative they become destructive,
crafting a beautiful kind of ruin I can barely reason with.

Hey—just speaking truth for those interested in it. Truth is...
I’m not always okay. I pretend to be, just to survive the weight
of another day.

It’s a dark space, and I clear the room to break down quietly,
to feel like I’ve repented something, to write myself into a better
place—hopping over the pen, jumping the fence of a mind that
sometimes cages me in. I’m not so pent-up anymore— not when
I let the ink do the talking.

And yes, I try to wear a brave face—but every face sheds a heavy
tear, every person caves eventually. Pitted against themselves.
As even the strongest people, the loudest, or the proudest—
they cry too. Just…not in front of you.

I wish I could cry, but I feel no tears.
I wish I could try—just slowly speak my mind clear.
I wish I didn’t have to explain myself every time I feel fear.
I believed those who know me would understand—
but that was a failure.

Here I am, sitting in quiet despair,
while a stranger understands my dilemma—
and no words were exchanged there.
                                                                   -Asher Graves

They don’t just describe emotions—
They dissect them.
Make you wonder
Why you feel,
And how much.

Some let their pens speak,
Others carry verses within—
Written on the walls of their minds,
Etched into the pulse of their hearts.

Poets are powerful.
They paint sorrow with beauty,
And make joy even more delightful.
They show us the world
Through an entirely different lens.

They can dress poverty in poetry,
And make wealth seem vainly stunning.
They stir our emotions,
Make us love deeply—
And hate just as fiercely.

We’re all born with a poet inside us.
Most just forget to listen.