I say, "They are just thoughts — they will go away."
But these thoughts yell louder than my words ,
Sometimes it feels like my brain will explode.

Depression is living with a dead inner being,
Dragging my lifeless body day by day—
Too many sleepless nights ,
My mind fighting demons.

I am afraid of who I've become.
Afraid to light a dark room,
To face a mirror —
Because mirrors don't lie.

It's funny how I look happy outside
While I'm breaking inside,
Each breath  heavier than the last.
Depression is like a death sentence.
It's really hard to leave my bed.
Sometimes I think the world
Would be better without me,
Because I don't really matter.

I'm tired of pretending I'm fine,
Tired of faking smiles,
Tired of answering "I'm okay"
When the truth is — I'm not.

i don’t know
why i allow
you to step
into my life.

i’ve fought
so long
for peace—

you walk right in
like you’ve got
the right.

you got me
feeling stuck
in place.
i waived the flag,
called a truce—

but instead of
stillness,
you chose
the chase.

what do you want,
anyway?

i spent so long
trying to figure it out—

but it’s still
the same lines
on a different day.

i don’t know
why i let you
circle back
again,

when all you do
is skirt the truth
and keep me
in your game.

A pistol tucked inside my heart—
memories of old dreams echo like bullet
wounds. Freedom comes, quietly, when
I finally let myself be known to myself.

Lips are like public transport;
they carry heavy loads:
sometimes love, sometimes doubt.

But the private lifts? Those are the words
we whisper to ourselves when we’re trying
to lift ourselves up, above our own doubts.

What loads are you carrying? Will your
transport make...or break someone?

Because belief in your own worth is such
a heavy load. And no— it’s not something
you should carry alone.

The weight of any load feels lighter when
the ones you love—and who love you back—
don’t just stand beside you; they help you
carry what you were never meant to bear alone.

Don’t close your eyes on your dreams—
you’ll lose sight of what you believe.
The will of your work is measured by
the work you’re willing to put in.
As I live in a house of emotions,
courting words to plead my case—
bleeding through a see-through face.
A quiet ache, always on trial.

Knowing that the high-and-mighty
Christian is the easiest target to bring down.
Careers cut short— because in short, they
never really knew the Lord.

And me?

I live like the world’s greatest plot twist,
my mind a tornado of thoughts—
every turn unexpected,
every breeze loud with questions.
I’ve known the chill of a cold finger turned
trigger. And felt the weight of a sharp tongue
used as a silencer. As it’s easy to shoot yourself
down the same way you shoot others—whether
whispered or screamed out loud.

But those who follow their worth,
instead of searching for it in the crowd—
those are the ones who stand out.
Aloud.

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.

I went looking for someone to blame for all the cracks
in my name, for the mess I made — but that mirror
didn’t tell a lie. The culprit wore my face.
I don’t want your love. I don’t want your shame.
Still, somehow, you found me — tongue bitter with
the taste of your mistakes; pressed against my teeth
like communion for the broken.

Tears rose — blooming smoke, clouds of falling flowers.
A storm of soft destruction, raining petals made of regret —
but it never rained just mine. It rained yours too.

Yet you learn to grow from the things that once cut
you down. Even the sharpest wounds can become
something softer when you let them go.
Edges trimmed; old roots shed — and still, I rise.
So now, when you see me, don’t mistake me for my
damage. I am not the bruise. I am not the blade.
I am far better than the sum of my mistakes.

They unearthed me like a secret they couldn’t bear to keep, unready, unwilling.
As I stood there, bare-souled,
Like love was a crime to confess.
words trembling on my tongue.
I whispered, “I’m human. I feel. Be gentle.”
But my plea dissolved in the silence.

They looked through me,
not as kin, not as blood,
but as something broken,
a stranger,a sinner,a shame.
So I unhooked my heart,
learned to float through the ache,

Years of silence,
Wrapped in cold shoulders.
Now they ask:
"Why don’t you call?"
"Why don’t you text?"
Strange, isn't it?
How absence echoes louder-
than presence ever did.

And still,
I carry on,
not untouched,
but unbroken.

Written by Micko
©️1.05.2025.All rights reserved.

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