And at last he prayed,
Prayed since all hope had perished,
All virtues faded and all sentiments gone.
Down the river he now floats, cursed with angst and pain.
He mourns his loss but his grief won't go away, for this is the consequence —
The consequence of action he so inadvertently did without a second of thought.
Oh, the lives he ruined, the chaos he brought.
Denial is the river, and denial is what he sought.

In denial he drowned,
And in denial he remained.

-Asher Graves

It’s a longing that runs deep
It’s a fire that lights it
It’s a blaze that you seek
It’s a desire that falls neat
It’s a blush that you heat
It’s a lust that you whip
It’s a whisper that feels cheap
It’s a lump that you dip
It’s a tear that you lick
It’s a feeling that leaves quick

It’s a Lover who felt sick

Being this way
They say
Is a natural occurrence
                               Certain
                               Predictable

     As when the path of
Worldly planets collide
              A shadow cast
              Upon the other
The dark eclipse
                                Inevitable

How does one soften
Such emotion
When its surface
             Is taught
Like the spine of an open book
                       Placed face down
For ease of remembrance

In the third of the night that sent by fate
a fate never meant for me.
As you burn, I freeze,
shrouded in the blizzard of silence,
witnessing your lightning-quick decision.

Makes me stand in the heart of winter,
with void dwelling deep in my senses and breath,
I turn myself into a monument of lament and sorrow,
powerless, violated by the shadow of your touch.

Perhaps I seem calm and unshakable,
but my blood boils, giving birth to a disaster
a tornado of crimson rising in my chest,
spinning without direction, wild and untamed.

If only I had not severed these hands,
for whenever I crave to reach for you,
it would turn me into ruins of darkness,
covered in dust, with shadows nesting in the hollows of my ribcage.

Yet behind it all, a flicker still lingers.
Even if I keep severing my hands,
your warmth, your beauty will always be
the cascade of light I yearn for.
And if I rust away, this monument will stand,
a testament to your grace.

Falling, like autumn leaves,
Drifting through the air,
Guided by the wind,
In shades of red and yellow fair.
But as they touch the ground,
Their colors start to fade,
Turning brown and battered,
Before they pass away.
Beaten, tattered, and torn,
All hopes of happiness forlorn.

I got this feeling where my soul is so weary that it's completely shattered.
It's strange and surreal how I don't get it.
I tried pouring it into the pages, but even the words failed to describe them.
The ink, it spilled all over my heart to fix it,
But even that ink couldn't soothe the sorrow within me.

Is it the world, or is it me, trying to ruin my soul?
I wonder how it feels to be truly understood.
Because I was always the one to understand everything, and it is a cruel curse to perceive things so perfectly.

I just failed so miserably while letting myself drown in the air, feeling suffocated yet breathing.
The wound in my heart was never healed.
It only deepened with each fleeting moment.
It bled so much that it turned the pages red.

I just yearn for someone to see the true me, not the mirror within that echoes the grief of mine.
But in the process of healing my wound, I lost everything my heart always longed for.

My soul, it is trapped in the agony of existing in this world.
It burned in the blaze of illusion and left the ashes behind,
And the wind grew so heavy that even the ashes faded away eventually.

Nobody is the name I wear,
My burden is too much to bear.
We can't be together, it is sin;
Love forbidden by one's own kin.

Not allowed to love somebody,
Told that you must love nobody;
Thus Nobody is the name I'll take,
Hoping a story we may make.

Sticks and stones
May break my bones
But none can tear
The love we share.

Adrift in shadows, hollowed by the night,
Yet gratitude still flickers, frail but bright—
A thirst for dawn, though weighed by whispered sorrow,
We clutch the fraying thread of tomorrow.

The ache of absence hums, a silent hymn,
Melancholy’s wine pools to the brim.
But in these ruins, treasures softly gleam:
A map of scars where longing dared to dream.

Our story trembles, ink on splintered wood,
Yet pulses warm where hopelessness once stood.
The thread, though thin, spills gold through vacant air—
A silken ladder climbing despair.

We’ll stitch the rift where darkness bleeds to blue,
And weave the tale our hunger dares renew—
For even fractured light still claims the skies,
And dawn persists in tired, stubborn eyes.