I came from silence, storms inside,
Where shadows spoke and tears would hide.
A boy made iron, flame, and thread,
I stitched my soul where others bled.

I asked the void, “Who am I now?”
No echo came—I made the vow:
To shape my mind, to sharpen steel,
To climb with scars and learn to feel.

I do not beg the stars to shine,
I build my path. The light is mine.
With every fall, I stand and grin—
Each bruise, a door I kick within.

They said, “You’re too much fire, too loud.”
But gold is never meant for crowds.
I chose the pain, the edge, the weight—
For that is where I forge my fate.

I am the man who breaks the wall,
Who walks through loss and loves the fall.
Let life strike hard—I strike it back
With vision fierce and heart intact.

I want the things they say can’t be—
The dreams too vast for eyes to see.
Not just for me, but those I love,
To lift them high, to rise above.

But I will rest, and breathe, and laugh,
And dance on broken aftermath.
For peace is part of power’s flame,
And joy is not a softer game.

I need no crown to know I won—
For I am whole when day is done.
The mirror holds my only prize:
A soul of gold, with fire in eyes.

And when I lose, I lose like kings—
Preparing for far greater things.
My failure’s just my victory’s lap,
A thunderclap before the snap.

And when I win, I build anew,
For others’ hands to climb it too.
Not envy, not control, nor pride—
But love, the storm I hold inside.

So mark these words and hold them tight:
I live for truth, I burn for light.
My name won’t fade, it multiplies—
For I am gold.

Golden, I rise.

Half of me and half of you, a point of divergence for you
Half of me and half of you, a point of amalgamation to me
Half of me and half of you, a false pretence to you
Half of me and half of you, a make-believe fairytale to me
Half of me and half of you, a hefty disdain to you
Half of me and half of you, a wishful radiance to me
Half of me and half of you, a lousy freebee to you
Half of me and half of you, a subtle rush to me
Half of me and half of you, a blatant lie for you
Half of me and half of you, a beautiful lie to me
                                                                         -Asher Graves

a nervous 𝘵𝘴𝘬 of the lips
a little drop of sweat bulging at the neck
an eyelid flickering way too much
a mind that won’t change
a pillow that reeks of salt
a photograph of a distant memory
a fly buzzing around the plasma tube light
a buzz that won’t go away

a switch that won’t turn off
a stain that won’t dust off
a walk that’s unusual for the age
a kid who refuses to play

it’s the little things that give you away

The Necromancer first noticed her magic
at seven, when her cousin passed.
Thunder descended upon her planet
to whisper a soft, solemn song of despair
and she knew, before anyone told her,
she knew death.

At thirteen, Pops followed into darkness,
but the Necromancer saw him again.
He walked her otherworldly dreams
in some distant galaxy, he held her
crying frame, he pleaded between sobs:
Take care of the living.

Still, the Necromancer never ceased to go
into other realms, flirting with the abyss,
colouring neverlands with her imagination.

It all changed when her youngest sibling
Fell.

Now, only sometimes,
when a full moon looms over silver clouds,
only then she peers behind the veil
and visits her brother in another existence.
They talk, they laugh, they cry,
but she always returns home,
because he is the one soul
with the magic to convince her
to live.

Bed is a vehicle
Without steer or veering wheel,
No two wings or a keel
Make a bed typical.

Coitus, Dream and Day
Inside a bottomless trunk,
You drive it when you’re drunk
Or any other way.

An eye-opener
And a commuting teacher,
Your bed's not in Future
Nor is it Past’s inner.

On a one-way road
And a carpeted sanctum,
Your bed holds you welcome
'Til your eyes become sewed.

How does capitalism deeply impact my life?

I want to make music so bad, but I procrastinate with stupid ****.
I clean as if people could come over anytime and judge me superficially. I often go out and shop for things I futilely hope will organize me enough to make cleaning faster. I shop for obscure musical instruments and gear to feel like it'll make making music easier.

In capitalism, owning the machinery is more valuable than doing the work. We ingrain that in our soul, more and more. Negative liberty was always valuable, but when you had less you used to find others to help turn that liberty positive.  

I have a guitar, bass, and drums, but no band. Self-alienation at this point. All my friends play, but don't want to make it a thing.


Our leaders are just hype men and chaos actors to keep the mystery going. "Capitalism may be cruel, but it's the best system we got."

"Capitalism just means people have the right to go into business for themselves." No the owners are subservient to something greater too. They serve capital, they serve the absolution of all. Your automatic answer is "it wasn't my fault." It was incorporated, depersonalized.

So many dead and broken people. So much waste. Digging up so much petroleum, the plastic's in our veins. "It's no one's fault." If by some astronomical chance a concerned public win a Kafkaesque trial, all that's lost is money. No one goes to jail or suffers, if you own enough stuff.

But there's the pickle. "The things you own start to own you," of course, but what's much worse is the Nothing they serve needs to grow, until there's no humanity left. Becoming voids who only seek more efficient ways to delete.