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.

God smiles. The devil always laughs— in a world where one
man can be a hero to all, but never a hero to themselves. But life
is life, and that’s something we all have to live. Growing ****
for hands, doing your best to explain all of life’s noisy jazz.
Improvising grace with filthy tools, sculpting silence from
the din. Finding gains from feeding peas to peace— small
offerings to vast ideals. But we’re all just boiling in the ***,
seasoned with hope, too numb to scream it all out.

Guess I’ll be filming a field of angels, watching them grow
into a movie I’ll never get to see. Faith on reel, a fate unreleased.
Goodness is easier when it’s clinical; cut, clean, and color-coded.
But look too closely, and even virtue starts to rot under the
microscope. But good to know most prefer playing doctor
to ever being a patient— yet none of them have the patience.
It's just one's self-diagnosis without much reflection.

Guaranteed: casual racists smiling their remarks so sweetly
that even the laughter sounds like applause. But I less applaud
for I’m more appalled – but we all live in a world.

Time...

Tell me — how much does it cost? ****, I don’t know.
I’m just trying to keep watch on the blessings I’ve got —
but more and more, they seem to stretch thin... like needle
and thread, barely holding the seams of me together.

I’m fading in connection. A rock flips — and I’m ******,
yet still trying to show decent manners. A “decent citizen”
in the dirtiest world — where the canopy of utopia is just
the Tree of Life man’s always itching to cut down…to sell
its fruits, to chop its wood, just to make pencils — so we
can write stories about it in our edited history books.

Love…

Tell me — what’s a dropout lover, anyway? Not one
who failed love — but one who stopped trying to graduate
from failed attempts. A degree in hopeless romanticism,
and a Master's in being a bachelor — but if time is really
worth it all, then tell me… what all do you really have?

Just a handful of yourself and a whole lot of doubt.
Now... what’s that about?

Yesterday, I died in my dream.

I am still alive.

Does that make any difference?

What is my name?

Who am I?

Oh! I remember

Isn't it determinism?

Today I sleep well.

Tomorrow I will...

They don't need you.

I'd feel like a stranger at my own funeral-
who's that in the box, dressed better in death
than I ever managed in life?
Better than my quiet attempts-those empty rehearsals
at suicide.

Was this the last chance I had left?
Even in death, my voice isn't heard-
nor the screaming ones trapped inside my skull.
Even my ghost wouldn't believe it's dead,
still hoping the lives I tried to save
might pay my way past the gates,
buy out my debts.

But what if there's no heaven waiting?
What if another kind of hell greets me instead?
What if I never see my old friends again-
never laugh without fear,
never smile without pretending?
What if I never stop
being so ******* afraid
so strangely ashamed
to feel nothing,
to be numb to even shame itself?

All I wanted
was to be born again-
not into some perfect life,
but one that wouldn't lead me
back to searching for another end.
And isn't it strange-
how only in death do we see our regrets
with such clarity?
Because there's nowhere left to run from them
once we get
to the end.

someone once asked me
if i were to describe how my heart looked
in words and not through science.
it left me wondering for ages,
finding the right words—
i realized metaphors worked,
kinda like being tangled in lines,
woven outta feelings i can't describe.

my heart is perhaps a lonely, lonely setting
in a space—void of any lighting.
there's glitter on it though,
and whenever it gets a signal of the memory,
cursed even if it was,
it glows like a broken lamp
flickering to light on an empty road,
like an old cd player stuck on the same song—
or more like, stuck on the default,
going in a loop.

the member of the family
stuck in a guest room.
the little kid, trying to sleep—
waiting for a lullaby or a nighttime story.

a black hole, absorbing its own self,
it's been far too alone, on its own.
a long, long night, waiting for a sunrise—
something the world despised, but not anymore.

a dead eulogy with rhyming words.
a piece of broken ceramic, held up by mud.
pieces of fabric cinched together
with needles and stitches,
pinned across words that once shattered—
on a corkboard, decorated in a fancy manner.

a building that collapsed once
during a 5.5 magnitude earthquake—
rebuilt, but never been the same since.

the perfect interpretation is hard to find.
my heart is like a glass toy
in the hands of a child,
a burnt forest that symbolizes ashes and rebirth,
an old woman close to taking her last breath,
yet smiling to the world.

a home to those who didn't belong,
race of the misfits, who all won.

it's just an *****,
something i need to pump blood and to survive—
and yet it feels like an ironical mess of words,
philosophical in its own existence.

i love this heart of mine.

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

There is a mad place inside some certain
Cold lane where windows creak with
Each gentle whisper.
Surely some revelation is at hand,
Surely someone is to come.
But this mad place, oh this mad place.

It beats and it beats, night and day
And doesn’t stop to sit to mourn or
Feel, this mad place, oh but
Surely some revelation is at hand,
Surely one might someday let it out.

In times of despair, one thinks of
Old age, one thinks of holding hands
And one thinks of committing a sin,
But this mad place, it never stops
To dream, da dum, da dum, indeed,
It beats and it beats!

One day, maybe, it will find a way
To figure it out, one day, or perhaps,
I shall grow a wing, or least
find a way to live with it,
But seldom, will it stop?

When will it stop? When
Will it make sense to stop?
Surely there must be something,
Some shade under a tree

Or some fine stone to sit on.
Oh but this mad place,
this mad place, this restless bird,
When would it drop the shiny pebble from its hands?

Yes, there are times when it lets out a sigh,
Mostly out of desperation. But
When the night passes, it makes up lies
It doesn’t look back to see what it said.

Does it even means what it says?
Does it even bother to say what it means?
This mad place, this uncaged cage,
What does it seem to wait for?
Who is to come? What is to come?

This mad place, this mad place,
When the words fly like out of season
Birds, when it squeaks like winter winds,
Maybe it will think to stop, or ask,
Surely someone is to come.
Surely some revelation is at hand!

death is humble;
death does not discriminate;
death is everything,
but life.