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Her Plan A was simple

Don’t have kids too young, so she invested
everything into Plan B: watching her step,
protecting her peace, staying ahead of
what the world might expect of her.
That was always her plan, see.

...not willing to risk it all for Plan D.

She’s still out here hoping this one
might be the one to drop down on one knee —
and not just another one wanting her on
her knees. So tired of bruised knees;
from praying to God for someone real,
while a man’s bruised ego is the only thing
she’s expected to heal.

...she just wants to be free.
Gabriel Yale Apr 13
Stars grow beneath the soil,
whispers rising from the roots
like memories returning home.
I breathe in truth,
slowly, like dawn.
I rise, I rise
the silence breaks
like waves in spring.
There stands a mountain
carved from freedom, veiled in wind,
alive with the songs of awakening.
Our eyes meet in courage,
our voices braided in light.
A Poem for the Awakening
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
Anika May 2018
I walk into the Graveyard of Dreams
Of shattered hearts and those throttled screams,
Away from where the sunlight gleams;
Where the dead things lie.

And as I pass the long centuries
My soul remembers the deadened breeze,
This body that’s on this life’s lease,
Lets out a shrill cry.

She reads the memoirs of ancient pain
The same souls that have left the same stain,
The suns that set and moons that wane,
And she asks me why.

And I walk towards the ready grave
The tombstone marked with a moon and wave,
All that I had I always gave,
But dead things will die.

I lift him up and bury my love
With one last look at heaven above,
All that I had was not enough,
Though, at least I try.

And with one last glance I walk away
Although my body bids me to stay,
My soul’s seen too many a day,
And She breathes a sigh.

For She knows True Love will not leave weak
Those with the courage and will to seek,
Those with the strength to climb Its peak,
And See with Its eye.

And I know that the Graveyard of Dreams
Is vital to stitch my endless seams,
It provides my supporting beams;
Let the dead things die.

— The End —