#melancholyverse
He searches for a love that whispers to his head.
In his soul, a beacon burns, a longing for a life,
Where love is not a fleeting ghost, but real and true and bright,
A star to guide him through the endless, darkest night.
But lo! The gangs of chaos rise, their eyes ablaze with hate,
They seek to crush the seeker’s dream, to seal his tender fate.
With fists of iron and hearts of stone, they stand in his way,
Yet he will strive, with all his might, for love will find a way.
He will rise above the crowd, his vision clear and pure,
For love is not a simple prize, but a journey to endure.
And in the end, he knows that love will conquer all the strife,
Yet in its glow, he’ll find his way, his beacon, his true life.
Apr 21, 2025
Apr 21, 2025 at 9:11 AM UTC
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 am the lonely portrait— a relic of forgotten frames,
paused mid-stroke, as if the brush lost faith in its worth
My skin is painted by many words; learning how to be
tough, taking down note by hesitant note— while the music
always plays in a minor key, an echo with no crescendo,
a verse that never becomes a chorus.
I speak in shadows— duelling the lovely dark that dresses
itself as company. It moves like an earthquake beneath ribs,
quiet until it’s catastrophic, gentle until it crumbles;
paramount and omnipotent.
My tears are potent, but never that important – imported;
as they arrive like a contraband emotion, smuggled in through
brief touches, but never held long enough to feel like home.
No comfort in the snuggle, only a struggle for the struggle —
I carry a thousand reflections, yet none are my own. And still,
I try—stroke by trembling stroke— to repaint my worth without
a muse, without applause, just silence and canvas and longing.
I am the painter’s sad poem— unfinished, unframed; hanging
quietly in a gallery no one walks through anymore.
May 29, 2025
May 29, 2025 at 5:20 PM UTC
_Sigh_! It comes like a train — an express line through
my thoughts, _no stops, no warnings._ Oh how
DEPRESSION clips at my heels, familiar as shadow,
unwelcome as memory. Defeated — like sunlight
pressed to branches too burdened to bloom. My heart
hangs in moss — heavy, strangled in the green silence
of old grief.
Tears lean like leafless trees, bowed in all directions,
yet rooted in a place with no direction — a forest dying
quietly, where even the familiar trails feel like ghost
roads I no longer recognize.
I feel short of worth — like coins counted in silence,
never enough to buy the currency of being loved.
I glow in daylight, but dusk takes its due —
and now I dim with every breath.
I try to speak, but end up forcing books down my throat,
pages crammed with words I never learned to say.
But you’ll never see me cry in public — I’m an island
left off every map, burying bottle messages even
I won’t recover.
I have so much hopeful words for others, but I’m
a stack of unread stories to myself; a pen that dries
before I can name the ache.
And somewhere inside —I find a red box with hidden
compartments, each one meant to hold something sacred.
But they echo when I open them — _soft, hollow_
reminders that even my soul has forgotten how
to fill its space.
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 2:52 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel my insides have dried;
I am only three percent alive—yet still alive.
Three percent alive is still being alive.
I won't say I’m doing terribly;
I've been lying dead for so long.
To be clear: only three percent of me breathes—
and even that is life.
No one speaks, as if nobody’s there,
but there’s one mercy: I don't have to hide how I feel.
Everyone assumes I’m gone.
No—perhaps I’m only three percent alive;
even that is being alive.
Someone left? I don't bring them back,
I keep no watch for anyone now.
I walk the world’s circumference, far from the center.
It doesn't hurt—I'm numb, as if already dead.
Truth is: I am still alive.
Even three percent is still life.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 1:13 AM UTC
She spoke in riddles, like shadows on the cave wall
He reached for forms, beyond the rise and fall
They met where being touches not-being’s edge
He kissed her silence, like flame upon a ledge
Two halves unwhole, in love’s eternal blur
From chaos born, and to the void they go
He built his truths on marble and despair
She whispered, “Nothing stays, not even air.”
And time, the thief, unbraided what they were
Two halves unwhole, in love’s eternal blur
From chaos born, and to the void they go
Still searching for the name the soul once knew to know
Now she dreams in water, he fades in stone
A philosopher’s truth: we’re always alone
But in that loneliness, a spark remains
The love that never dies, just changes names.
Jul 26, 2025
Jul 26, 2025 at 4:59 PM UTC