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Some pick a Flower
Beauty and Grace
The Flower forgotten
Swimming in putrid vase

Until they grow old
Mind and Face
Then they grab hold
Yet too-late

No visage in town
No trace to be found
No friend is around
Their love has no crown

The Father, The *****
Sheep or Wolf
The Mother, The Captive
Like a Snook, on the hook

The Joker
The *****
The Beauty
The Cage

Are all now exposed
By their fate as they fade

#Writings-From-Within
I don’t mourn the absences of the dead. I mourn the absences of the living.

GFM The Reticent Writer ©️
2024


#Writings-From-Within
SHE
She is invisible. Yet, stands upright. Ignored, disregarded, a spirit run down.

Intelligent as she thinks yet; still forgettable in her pink slings. Not enough. Too much. “Off”.

This is the anger. This is the cry, she screams in the wind, no longer inside. The words, have vanished, the words are gone. She now is screaming without her song.

She makes herself small, a tight little ball.
Yet none are for her. She’s alone at the wall.
They move and they glide and they skip around.
The girl once a mute until silence is gone.

Her quiet, demure, reserved
kind of love, is ripe for the picking and pure as the sun.
The gentle, the sweet, or maybe the heat has made her a mist like the river’s that meet.

Her story a riddle, her spirit quite large, the people confused by the saltage she plods.  
For one maybe two have now turned their heads to look at the girl who once was well “fed”.

The moral, now told is not where you “look”. The moral is where YOU set your own hook.
This cursed silence makes so much noise—
and the way its echoes ring is unbearable.
Ever since I rented out the upstairs room,
it's just been Che... Che... all day long.

If I hadn't taken an advance,
I would've kicked them out long ago.
Now even the walls of the house-
seem to be turning the same color...
How sometimes, even the walls begin to wear your mood.
A child sleeps in neon static
his ribs spell passwords no one reads.
Coins blink on screens, not in palms.
A mother trades her breath for bandwidth.

They stitch worth in barcode veins,
souls archived in debt.

Yet
in the ruin’s hum,
a hand still reaches
not to take,
but to hold.
Ahmed Gamel Apr 17
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.
This poem is the embodiment of my personal journey—a reflection of two years spent battling silence, pressure, and the chaos within. It's a declaration of resilience, a roadmap built from pain, ambition, clarity, and the need for deep human connection.

I’ve faced myself, stripped down every illusion, and found meaning in the act of striving. Even in failure, I rise sharper. Even in loss, I am never lost.

This is more than a philosophy—it's the pulse of my path.

—To those who fight quietly, rise loudly.
Asher Graves Apr 12
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
Wrote this when I was in love. Didn’t end well—but hey, at least it gave me this piece. They say the greatest tragedies spark the deepest inspirations.
dead poet Dec 2024
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
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