#antiromantic
Everybody keeps saying how they’d dance in the rain —
sway their bodies, feel the drops,
let the water wash away their pain.
But I say —
why romanticize what you barely understand?
You sing to storms like they’re songs of healing,
but don’t you know?
Rain is sorrow.
Rain is memory leaking through the cracks.
It’s the sky mourning something it lost,
not some magic meant to set you free.
So when someone smiles
and whispers how much they want to dance in the rain,
I look away and answer softly:
Everything but the rain.
-Asher Graves
May 26, 2025
May 26, 2025 at 10:03 AM UTC
I'm an Anti-Romantic
I don't believe in Love anymore
I think I've lost faith in it
A waste of my time
Is like eating chocolate
I don't feel any sweetness
Only the bitterness within
A flaming love
Burnt till there's only
black soot left
No more love poems
No more rom coms
No more valentine's
I'm an Anti-Romantic
May 26, 2022
May 26, 2022 at 8:14 AM UTC
Winter song. Fall passing.
And too with so many like this. When she is not there-
Vibrations after the battle, footsteps breathing deeply into the cotton beds and privy the shrews of their slavery. Heavens' toll after me, brine and abalone shimmering.
Cast in a shadow of half-arched feet, slender narrowness shimmering crystals obfuscate the fury of the ringing;
Every evening when I wake she shakes her bell.
It ripples like food coloring droplets undulating in a dixie cup on the mantel of a kitchen sink. The elbows sprout out first, then the head stridently strikes upwards catapulting the arms and wrists to the sides, and then at last when all is deep ****** blue, the raw hairless legs unmask themselves and fold out into the edge of a postcard and the reddy, cerise snowflake stain brands the juicy signature of an incredible beautifully imprinted star. And still she is not there.
Into the white rooms the insects crawl, at last the cacophony of their bedeviled stridulations eeking as if from a broken and collapsed jaw. A necessary end to every inch of hoarfrost strung across their elliptical hoot-shaped jowls-
These are the marks that time encrusts upon disheveled and dilapidated Spline.
In dark matter there are Spline. In shifty daytime television sitcoms, Spline saw at our ears and cost us trillions of migraines each year. Three Splines sit on a log, another four on a fence. They race each other in elevators, make inappropriate gestures, make airplanes disappear into the Indian ocean, and steal the breath right out of our lungs. Spline cannot come any closer. Spline are the dreary minutia which separate friends, they are the sentence that never makes it off of our tongues, the anger we leave curled into our fists.
She is not here and the fevers are burning. The languages are deafening. It is almost impossible to believe words like these were ever spoken aloud. She is not here and the jeans don't fit, the dogs are shy, and the accidents keep happening. There is never a glimpse at perfect and hot happiness. There is nothing here but the spotty ash-pocked masked faces of the Moon Men, hurrying and scurrying.
She is not here and the sea is drying up. The war is in the street and in the streets the men are dying. Everywhere is dross and cataclysmic end-dust, desiccated hours and dandelion seeds.
Inside of the room the music plays softly. Glass's solo piano Metamorphosis Three and Satie's Gymnopedie. It has been only six hours since she left, but
When we see each other I am superman
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 3:40 AM UTC