Once, the heart
expressed itself freely
listened without resistance
but nowadays
my heart has fallen into silence.

No longer inclined to read
no longer willing to write
my heart shows no interest in listening
it seems to have lost its sense of purpose.

I’m clueless about its whereabouts
my heart, nowadays
no longer resides within me.


-०-

I’ve got diamond eyes, but don’t see myself so clear,
All the excited boys make the most noise,
Yet depression only needs to whisper in an ear.

Words are prison bars; speaking highly of yourself
the danger of being handed a lengthy sentence–
Booked in the library of time; days sitting on a shelf.

… waiting to be read

Let me stay shelved a little longer— reading up,
leading up, dreaming of a story still becoming
Between the lines; silent – even good stories gather dust
These tales of triumph still tarnish and rust…

Don't judge by how loud or how fast it all looks—
even the best stories get forgotten in books…
misunderstood!

I. Ignition (1st Gear)
We built this bond with bolts and wires,
not warmth. Call it a connection— but it
was code, calibrated smiles and pre-programmed
concern. You turned the key, and I came alive
Just long enough to move when you needed motion.
____________

II. Drive (2nd Gear)
We were just motorheads, revving louder than we felt.
Not riders—just parts in motion. Fueling the ride,
but never the journey. You drove me— not toward a
future, but to the edge, where metal meets rust, where
trust wears thin. Your “drive” was reserved for those
who mapped your ending in their eyes— those who
promised arrival, but never shared the breakdowns.
____________

III. End (3rd Gear)
But not everyone is there for the real ride.
Only a few stayed when the wheels locked
and the road curved off course. So if this message
reaches you— the ones who truly cared— know this:
you weren’t just passengers. You were the engine.

I’ve stood at the edge
of so many beginnings—
just close enough to taste them,
never close enough to stay.
The door always slightly ajar,
never open.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

People call me potential,
but never presence.
A promise, not a person.
Their faith feels like fog—
thin and disappearing
the moment I reach for it.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

I speak like I know who I am,
but the echo doesn’t agree.
My words crumble in my mouth
before they ever build meaning.
Even my hope sounds rehearsed.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

I dream in color,
but live in grayscale.
My hands stretch forward
but always fall short—
of the vision,
of the version
of me I thought I’d be by now.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

So I write.
I bleed ink and silence
trying to draw a shape
that feels like truth.
And maybe one day,
I’ll look back
and see I was becoming all along.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

Everybody keeps saying how they’d dance in the rain —
sway their bodies, feel the drops,
let the water wash away their pain.

But I say —
why romanticize what you barely understand?
You sing to storms like they’re songs of healing,
but don’t you know?

Rain is sorrow.
Rain is memory leaking through the cracks.
It’s the sky mourning something it lost,
not some magic meant to set you free.

So when someone smiles
and whispers how much they want to dance in the rain,
I look away and answer softly:

Everything but the rain.
                                                  -Asher Graves

There’s a parachute stitched into my eyes— soft silk holding
nothing, as I watch myself freefalling into an empty space
The ringing words of love still call, like fading prayers –
as the voices of lovers trying to reconnect.

But I never was good at playing my heart. But aren’t you
expecting me to stay in character? To wear the lines you
wrote for me, in the means of keeping up this fantasy of love.
My smiles are scripted; as everyone else is helping to create
such a picture frame. The world helps paint our picture from
all the wildest of conversations; but the more they run out of
your mouth, the more they seem to taste so tame.

These tired eyes have searched in your eyes for a reflection
I can truly bend– so is the baggage claim of my baggy eyes;
visioning our broken pieces coming together to hopefully
mend.

I was your background character, your silent NPC in a game
you never knew I played, the first time. But when I stopped
watching, when I stopped turning toward you with secret
obsession – you started to feel the crush of my own crush.
Now you chase the echo of something that once held you
true—that hidden crush, that tender view, searching. But love,
my dear, truly YOU, should see how love is so **** blind.

The Scarlet Refusal


The box. The chains.  
The absolution.  
“It ends the pain,” they say.  

But what is there for me to gain?  
My shackles long slipped the rein.  
It’s your box, your chain, that detains.  

I abandoned that game.  

“It sticks,” they say.  
“It rebels,” they voice.  
A bright red ‘A’.  

But no heed I pay.  
I light my illuminate blaze.  
Not an arsonist—  
Just someone who is unlevered.