#metaphoricalwriting
To marry forever; though it's not the same mate –
its habitat is worldwide, this thing called Love.
It pecks at the other birds; as birds have faith
in branches; love faithful in wanting to leave,
as soon as the fruit it once bore falls away.
Birds too, believe in trees, in what they can
provide for them: food, shelter, and warmth.
And so too love — food, shelter, and warmth,
but when we taste from it, it can starve us;
what it covers may still make us feel naked.
And the warmth it portrays could come from
a very cold place - _a cold shoulder's glacier._
Yet still, we build our nests in passing storms —
calling it forever, because it feels like home.
Oct 31, 2025
Oct 31, 2025 at 3:50 PM UTC
Heart —
hollow until tomorrow.
A man, a painter, once aimed so far
he broke his bow; his reach stretched
wider than his hands could hold.
Dreams, swollen with glory, dripped
down the bristles of a hardened brush
— dipped in the wetness of tears,
each stroke a storm, heavy with passion.
It starts with a pit —
a seed pressed deep in the soil, a hollow
carved where something once stood,
a cave widening in the chest.
In the immensity of a workshop built from
cheap wood, tell me —
where does a heart take root?
Cutting down those trees is mayhem waiting
to happen; for when the pit is flawed,
the whole foundation caves.
And maybe that’s why we doubt
the truth we’re told.
They said,
“_the great tree fell_.”
But if you never saw it fall yourself,
would you ever believe it made a sound?
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 12:13 PM UTC
You’ve got a toothpick smile — sharp enough to pick
the words from my lips as we kiss, my darling.
Two roadmaps curve across your eyes —you see
exactly where you’re headed, and still, I hope you
trace your way back to me. As there’s a picture on my
ceiling — a memory sketch of you that walls can't help
but echo. Even in silence, this house whispers your name.
We're paired like bus wires — tethered to our thoughts,
transporting the weight of our unspoken luggage.
You’re cruel with beauty, closed off like a bookshop on
a Sunday —but I still read your body language on the
spine of your sighs. While the anchor of this love dives
deep, and I hold fast — _even if your tides pull me under._
Your face — inked in my mind like a permanent marker
refusing to fade.
Finally, you’re an orchid waiting in the sun, and I,
the patient gardener, learning to love each petal as it
unfolds; knowing that with each new bloom, we both
grow. So if I must wait — let it be beneath your seasons.
Let me turn with your weather, and stand still long
enough for you to call this heart your home.
Aug 5, 2025
Aug 5, 2025 at 5:03 PM UTC
_Life is a wonder_ —no wonder I still wonder
how I made it to today. Life is what you make of it —
not like a butler who serves, but a self-made shape
you forge from struggle and grace.
We judge with our eyes, but on Judgment Day,
it won’t be our eyes that matter. And when that day
arrives —whether we walk or run to heaven’s gate —
know that love won't wear the form you tried to fit
into every heart.
To love in part means sometimes we must depart —
leave behind space wide enough for stars to breathe.
The emptiness you find may feel vague, but it’s where
meaning stirs quietly, and the hopes you laid on a lover
might be the very hope that led you astray.
We leave this place as ashes — but never to rest
in an ashtray. Because even dust has destiny,
and fire never forgets what it once warmed.
_Life is a wonder_ — in both a good and bad way.
And maybe that’s enough.
Jul 26, 2025
Jul 26, 2025 at 2:08 PM UTC
__Two wild tales to tell__ — there are two stray dogs chasing
pedestrians again. That’s the story they’re telling the authorities.
Meanwhile, on a sunnier day, a ledger’s pages yellow daily —
all outlasting the smoke of all the fires you swore were for your
own good. Cigarette-stained fingers; noir pages of a crime scene
unnoticed — that’s what it feels like, loving someone who’s
stopped seeing you as their focus. Funny, isn’t it? They stole
your heart but make you feel like a thief, for stealing all of their
time. They claimed they needed space, but weren’t they the ones
who first called you, their star?
The mirror in your bathroom is cracked; you can’t wash
it with your tears. But hasn’t the bathwater been quietly
counting them all?
________________________________________
__Now, there’s finance to be contemplated__ — those complicated
relationships, where compromise is contemplated, but then
quietly makes things complicated. But let someone hand me
a _sans_ discussion —they’ll only subtract the font of my love
language, erasing the letters of my love before I’ve spelt them
out. To say we don’t talk like we used to. But truthfully?
We never spoke that deeply at all. As a lot of people still
drown in their shallow thoughts.
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 6:57 PM UTC
It's often such a strain
Trying to keep up positive thoughts —
To strain my mind, hoping to get rid
Of negative thoughts; sometimes,
_It just strains me more…_
Life boils me over.
Some days, I get too steamed to even try
And move on forward... feeling so stuck —
Sitting still, too hot to handle,
And being too heavy to pour it all out.
__I feel like white rice__ —
Plain, overcooked, forgotten, and just
Sitting there, cooling off in an unattractive
Bowl, that no one really reaches for…
Sometimes I am the metaphor, the idea,
The hope, the dream; __or nothing at all__ —
Yet I’ll give everything of myself, every
Last drop… even up to _tiniest_ piece of rice
In that open rice bowl.
Jul 7, 2025
Jul 7, 2025 at 3:38 AM UTC
__I. Ignition__ _(1st Gear)_
We built this bond with bolts and wires,
not warmth. Call it a connection— but it
was code, calibrated smiles and pre-programmed
concern. You turned the key, and I came alive
Just long enough to move when you needed motion.
________________________________________
__II. Drive__ _(2nd Gear)_
We were just motorheads, revving louder than we felt.
Not riders—just parts in motion. Fueling the ride,
but never the journey. You drove me— not toward a
future, but to the edge, where metal meets rust, where
trust wears thin. Your “drive” was reserved for those
who mapped your ending in their eyes— those who
promised arrival, but never shared the breakdowns.
________________________________________
__III. End__ _(3rd Gear)_
But not everyone is there for the real ride.
Only a few stayed when the wheels locked
and the road curved off course. So if this message
reaches you— the ones who truly cared— know this:
you weren’t just passengers. You were the engine.
Jun 2, 2025
Jun 2, 2025 at 3:14 PM UTC
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
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 8:45 AM UTC
a fog, i saw,
in the mist of night.
humble, it led me
to the ***** of the beast -
who pet me, and held me, and licked me,
until it, and i, were one.
my restless heart would not let the
beast be at peace…
‘what lies into the night?’, i insisted.
‘i must know. tell me now, i say.’
and the beast shook its head - nay.
‘travel not, nor inquire, into the sea of despair’,
it groaned, ‘it leads good men astray’.
‘but i’m not scared’, i said.
‘look at me… i’m you. i’m mighty.’
‘what could possibly hurt you?’
‘what could possibly hurt… us?’
‘you mistake me for my appearance, young man’,
the beast hummed from within.
‘i am but a vessel.’
‘i do not possess the might you seek.’
‘i was sculpted in your image,
and scores of such valiant seekers
who carrowed their poise for pride’.
‘but if you must -'
'i’m obliged to warn you, as they would -’
‘you may not forget what you see;’
‘you may not like what you hear;’
‘the sea is not forgiving to men
who trespass upon the realms of solitude’
‘hope you’re ready - ’
‘it gets colder as we get nearer.’
and as we passed the bay of deadly sins,
where tales of woe would barren lay -
sure enough, i heard a faint
rallying cry from far away;
‘the captain must’ve lost his wits...’,
sighed the beast -
‘his compass must’ve failed to obey.’
a requiem followed the shipwreck,
as the shallow winds kissed the
waters grey.
Dec 10, 2024
Dec 10, 2024 at 3:40 PM UTC