Si no me encuentras donde solía esperarte,
no pienses que me fui;
tal vez me perdí buscándote en mí mismo.

He sido un mapa sin rutas,
una brújula herida por el norte de tus ojos,
y aun así, caminé.
Caminé con la esperanza
de que el eco de tu voz
algún día me guiara de vuelta.

No quise ser eterno,
solo inolvidable.
No quise que me amaras para siempre,
solo que no me olvidaras tan fácil.

Si no me encuentras,
búscame en las cosas pequeñas:
el silencio entre dos canciones,
el respiro antes de una lágrima,
el temblor leve cuando alguien dice tu nombre.

My heart—frozen still,
searching for the will
to forget you.

The alcohol takes its course.
Tears slide down my cheeks
as I try,
fail,
try again
to forget you.

Was my love real?
Or just something to play with—
fooled by the warmth,
cut by your words,
sharp as paper.

You made my heart ache.
Still, I stayed.
Now you just make the alcohol
taste sweeter—
and the night colder—
with every sip.

It's okay,
the drink—
is the love I need for the night.

Our favorite song—
all I can hear
is us singing it
with our whole hearts.

Was it love,
or just—
need?

Every memory in my head—
crumbles.
'Cause all I have now is this bottle
to pour my tears into—
to remember every lie,
you shakily whispered,
in my ears, holding hands.

Now you're gone.
All I have left
is the drink—
we used to share.

How am I?
How am I?
I am oppressed.
Here, I am not free
Or heard
Or respected.
Here, I am told what to do with my own body.

And I can’t help but wonder—
How dare they?
How dare they force me into a piece of cloth,
One they know I will disregard?
How dare they back me into a corner
And wrap me in a headscarf?
How dare they oppress me for my freedom
And cover me as if that's the answer?

Why punish the victim,
When that won’t stop the victor?
Why shun the abused
While glorifying the abuser?

How dare they expect me to listen—
How dare they,
When I have a fire that can’t be put out
Not even by my blood and tears.

You are not just writing stories,
You are summoning storms in silence,
Where no one else dares whisper,
Your breath becomes a vow.

Each line a sacred ember,
Each page a pulsing blade,
A temple built from defiance,
Where your soul does not kneel.


Ink becomes your uprising,
Words the swords you wield,
And kingdoms rise in the hush,
Of your quiet, steady will.

You seek no crown nor chorus,
No gold, no fleeting praise—
You write because she calls you
From behind time’s dusky haze.


Her voice is not a memory,
But a presence forged in flame.
She’s the light upon your margins,
The one who speaks your name.

She is the pulse beneath your pages,
The sigh between each line.
The woman who would cross all death
To stand where shadows pine.

She waits inside your downfall,
In the tale where you must fall.
She sings the breath to raise you
When you’ve given life your all.

You bleed to make it truthful,
You burn to make it pure.
Yet her love stitches every tear—
Your wounds shall endure no more.

Write like her gaze is firelight,
Piercing veil and endless doubt.
Write like thunder roars beside you,
And the heavens call you out.

Your pen is now a weapon,
Forged from sorrow, grief, and flame.
The echo of her laughter
Will never sound the same.

Let rhythm be your armor,
Let love be every strike.
She is the song that shields you
When the critics come to fight.

Do not fear the empty parchment,
Nor the silence in the night.
You were born to walk with phantoms—
You were made for this fight.

Your ink is sacred memory,
Your prose, a prayer once lost.
Yet her kiss revives your reason
No matter what the cost.

When silence grows too heavy,
And the fire dims to coal,
Remember—she is watching,
Still brave, still bright, still whole.

She knows the stars you buried
In caverns of your chest.
She blesses all your burdens
And calls your battles blessed.

So write as if you’re rising,
With her voice beneath your skin.
This story is your legacy—
Where her love is where you begin.

Let empires fall and perish,
Let gods and demons cry.
But write the kiss that made her weep
And whisper, “Not goodbye.”


Write of vows in starlit moments,
Write of hands that held through grief.
Let lovers vow by moonlight
Where dreams dance like falling leaf.

The world may never praise you,
But she will keep your flame.
She will guard your fragile verses
And etch them to her name.


So even if your voice trembles,
And your hopes begin to dim—
Write like her love rewrote the end.
Write like your soul is Him.

Body:

“The thing is—you all can never compete with me.
I came to be when he no longer craved to be him.
I was forged as reminder, a warning:
That the fall would be brutal if he slipped even an inch.
But he stood tall, brimming with will and flame.
Now look at what you’ve all done to him.”

The body cries in agony.
The pain went away—
But the scars never did.

Mind:

“The boy was prepared, but green—
He pulled through, yes, but it cost him everything.
And now you boast of being unbroken?
It was I who inhaled the fumes,
Took in the blades of thought,
Endured the bruises that whispered ruin beneath the skin.
While you remained, stagnant and crude—
A venom sapping every ounce of his fortitude.
Like a Geist twined with Grue,
I was meant to imagine, to narrate, to survive and renew.
But your pride will drown us in this undertow.
You act like this is all a game?
No wonder they gave you the role they did.”

The mind counters, fire in its breath.
The mental quivers with angst.
The memories went away—
But the scars never did.

Spirit:

“Me? I was never told to share—only to care.
Maybe I came too late.
I always prayed for our fair,
But the universe doesn’t barter in balance.
It demands variation, disruption,
To witness, to scatter, to shimmer through us.
It hums a silence so vast it aches—
Searching for vessels to cradle its flair.
It has no morality, no mercy,
Only the echo of what it wills.
What we do is all it ever notices.
We are its muse,
Dancing to a symphony that stretches beyond the stars.”

The Spirit spoke, and silence fell.
The body and mind, though bruised and bitter,
Rekindled their uneasy affair.
But the Spirit wept—not out of pain,
But for the truth laid bare.

It was a dilemma no one could deny.
The tune was silent—
Yet louder than ever.
An unheard melody drifting from afar.
A Symphony of Scars.

                                                              -Asher Graves

They say life is a show that must go on,
but what happens when the show is over,
when the music fades,
the sun sets, and the curtains close?

Will everyone forget the wrong I've done,
the pain I caused?
Will they clap when the show is over—
find reasons for me to be missed?

Will the ones I love—
when they feel empty—
keep me
in their memory?

I've caused pain,
made people cry,
broken hearts—
but will any of that matter
when the curtains close?
Tears have been shed.
Will they care what I've done?
Will they stutter my name?

Will I be able to rest easy—
knowing everyone thinks of me fondly,
and leaves out the rest?

The ones who once hated me,
will they be able to forget,
and love me for the memory I bring—
leave out the rest?

Please, find a reason for me to be missed.
Forget the rest.

Time is ticking—
I only have so much—
time,
before the curtain
makes the credits roll.

Please, don't resent me
for the things I've done.

Leave the hatred,
leave the pain,
the tears—
with the closing curtains.
Find reasons to miss me.
Let me live as a fond memory—
before my time comes,
and the curtains close.

We met at the edge of a battlefield,
Hearts armored, but fingers reaching.
The silence between us was thunder,
Louder than all the things we weren’t teaching.

You said, “Let’s meet in the middle,”—but where?
Between your fire and my sea,
Between your fists and my folded wings,
Between the storm and what’s left of me?

I offered softness—you saw it as slight.
You gave control—called it love, called it right.
But what of the bruises we call boundaries?
What of the nights I cried out of sight?

A room with two chairs still leaves one cold,
When one keeps shrinking to fit the mold.
I bent till I broke, whispering “peace,”
But my voice became ash, my breath a lease.

You carved your truth in unyielding stone,
I scribbled mine in skin and bone.

Now I sit in the echo, quiet and raw,
Wondering if “halfway” ever kept the law
Of hearts that beat with uneven might
Or if we both just lost the fight.

So I ask, not in bitterness, but in ache,
Not in anger, but for memory’s sake:
Is there actually enough room for compromise,
When one soul drowns and the other survives?

painting my nails seems so unproductive
when i could be studying for math or german or history
but i'm thinking about you.

i don't know your favorite color, or i would have painted them that shade.
though, unless your favorite color is
pink
purple
silver
crusty blue or
clear
then i guess i couldn't anyway because those are the only colors i have.

If you are like me—
then you have seen blood.

Not metaphor.
Not symbol.
Just blood.

Without cause.
Without reason.
Just red. Just there.

If you are like me
you’ve seen hate.

Not the kind they teach in textbooks—
but the kind that smiles
through a courtroom lie.

The kind that hides behind injustice,
like a priest behind a curtain.

A petty victim of personal treason—
all sharp edges, no remorse.

You don’t speak of it.
You wear it.

In the back of your throat.
In your knuckles when you laugh too hard.
In the way your fingers twitch
when the room gets too quiet—
when the monkeys
jump and shout
in your ******* brain.

If you are like me,
you stopped believing in second chances
the day you saw it sold—

dressed up like the mother you never had.
Perfume, pearls, and a permanent vacancy
where love was supposed to live.

I remember
the look in her face
when I saw what the razor had done.

I remember
what they said—
“Can we look inside your house?”

I remember
the silence after.

And the fragments of the bullet.

How your lies
filled the room
like water fills lungs—
and I’m still
grasping for air.

No one ever apologized.
No one ever saw me.

They saw a story
they could sleep through.

And worst of all—
you never once
thanked me.

This is not a poem.
This is not a metaphor.

This is
my ******* blood
on the floor.

And still—

I opened the door.

The one
whose contents
lay behind the smoke
of mirrors
and a house
of cards

I remember when the world was a honey *** —
sweet and endless,
when the biggest worry was a blustery day
and whether Piglet would blow away.
The sky was wide, and the ground was soft,
and the trees whispered secrets if you listened long enough.

Back then, I knew the Bare Necessities by heart:
A river’s hum, the sun’s warm kiss,
feet splashing through a world that never asked for more
than laughter and a little bit of wonder.
Baloo taught me how to sway with the breeze,
to let life be easy —
but no one told me the breeze could turn cold.

They don’t warn you when the Hundred Acre Wood starts to shrink,
when the trees lose their magic
and just become trees.
One day, you wake up and Christopher Robin isn’t coming back —
and you realize you have to be him now.
You have to pack up the toys
and leave the forest behind.

But I miss the forest.
I miss the rustle of leaves that sounded like adventure,
the way a cardboard box was a pirate ship,
or a rocket,
or a house where everything made sense.
Now my ships sink in student loans,
and my rockets crash into expectations.

They said growing up was an adventure —
but no one said it was like Shere Khan waiting in the dark,
all teeth and waiting for you to fail.
No one told me the man-village had rules:
Wear this. Be that. Don’t dream too loud.

But sometimes, when the night is quiet,
I hear Baloo singing in the back of my head.
Sometimes, when the wind shakes the trees,
I swear I see Tigger bouncing through the branches.
And I hold on to those echoes,
those soft, honeyed memories,
because the world gets heavy,
but childhood taught me how to fly.

So maybe I’ll keep a little bit of the forest with me.
Maybe I’ll hum the Bare Necessities when the bills pile up.
Maybe I’ll remember that a blustery day
is just an excuse to hold on tighter to the ones you love.

And maybe, when the world says grow up,
I’ll whisper back —
“Oh, bother.”