A wise way to speak is to let silence perceive—
Yes! Yes! That is the way to live.
Arguments and violence are the norm,
While the silent ones are obviously a freak.
Enigmatic world we live in;
Society rants status, yet none pass the criteria.
Oh, you've such a beautiful fever dream—
Nope, I’m just suffering from malaria
Everyone's a threat until you get them to confront ya.
Weren’t you speaking volumes?
Talkin’ about how you’d demolish me!
Nope, that’s just my dyslexia.
Even the once stiff Language now follows the belief.
Instead of “figures of speech”, there are “figures that speak”.
They swear to follow democracy! They care only about our currency.
Oops! I meant to say they only care about competency.
I swear it isn’t a gimmick! Oh! you meant to say Hypocrisy.
Well a little dilly dally is fine for such a huge democratic bureaucracy!
Let’s change the tone a bit.
These niche little hypocrites
Care only about positions, propaganda and politics!
You think they care about us?
Sure, when the chicken talks to sheep
which causes a flock of birds to beep, just like when “Thanos” snapped the gauntlet and blipped and none of us got up our seat and raged all over the streets when “Iron man” died on that clip. Welp let me order me a figurine!
These are the things that I’d rather do
Than hear you people preach about bigots called idiots!
(Hahaha No apologies for this slip.) I mean figures! Are you asleep?
Crude words that stick to anyone. Ribbit!
But trust me when I say these figures have powerful latency.
Sure truth maybe a little twisted
Like how dark humour is now everyone’s shtick!
I just bend it so that you too can steal laugh for a bit.
I vent in verses, absurd as concrete truths!
Ahem! I mean to say as absolute as concrete truths!
That feels like a little play fight, isn’t it?
Maybe my memory is rigged but I can’t remember a time
when there wasn’t a confrontation among the fellowship.
Maybe I am a crazy little minx
But it’s crazy how they get to fully live.
A grand life with luxury
That isn’t earned since they were born with it.
Well Excuse me for interrupting a serious topic
But wasn’t there a figure who promised
To build a machine where you throw a potato and get gold on other side of it?
Such a revolutionary idea isn’t it?
Such a great figure with masterclass tapestry
Even Victor Von Doom and Reed paused their fight to gnaw upon such mastery.
Okay back to the topic
Let me remember the times of brilliant dictatorship!
Time when roads were clean.
Homelessness wasn’t a thing.
Sorry, what? You said something?
You mean to say I said dictatorship?
No. I said leadership!
Yeah. That’s what I sai-
Oh! Sorry for the little slip!
Wait a **** minute.
Wasn’t that ‘cause the Poor folks were banned from sleeping
Near the area of regime!
Because it dropped down the housing stocks of the rich
They dropped down a ****** scheme!
I mean that’s understandable, coming from a bloating blob
You’d need a brain to perform a valid thought.
A Nuke of an order to clean the “****” with the machine.
Tragic how standards change
For one of them was the teacher
That taught the **** fool how to act pristine.
Now lost his job so slept near the Bungalow
Until things turn serene.
Now that same tutor is one of the many victims.
None with morality. Not a shred of goodness in them.
All money-hungry, power-driven, slaves of temptation—
Atrocious beings.
Yet we cave in when we are presented with a bunch of choices.
Just for favour or advantage from others.
We play the cards they predict!
And just like how the house always wins.
The circus starts once again.
It's not a party trick.
It’s not a magic trick.
Just a “figure of speech.”
Figures that, you’d speak.
Careful though or you may get the “Slip”.
— Asher Graves
This piece is a chaotic sermon dressed in satire, stitched with absurdity, and delivered by a narrator who can’t quite decide whether they’re joking—or warning you. Figures of Speech was born from watching the distortion of language in real-time—how words meant to unite often divide, how truth bends until it breaks, and how the loudest voices often say the least.
The poem is a venting valve. A fever dream with punchlines. It tackles everything from political hypocrisy and media theatrics to the decay of discourse itself. The “slips” in the poem—those ironic stumbles and word-swaps—aren’t mistakes; they’re masks peeling off. The more the narrator fumbles, the more they reveal.
At its heart, this poem is about power: who holds it, who manipulates it, and who suffers beneath it. But it’s also about complicity—ours. We laugh, we scroll, we nod, and then we play our roles again. The circus restarts. The machine keeps running.
This is not a call to action. It’s not even a protest. It’s just a figure of speech.
Unless, of course, it isn’t.
