Asher !! {🖤}

Hi!
          In case you’re wandering about what else I’ve been up to becides poems….
          
          1.writing books, the Undenibly suga & honey(a horror thriller book).
          
          2.listing & reading books (currently mostly the legacy of gods series by Rina Kent)…. And in case you’re wandering I like all of them but crighton… his book ruined him for me. (Other series I’m up to is devils night)
          
          3.watching shows… pertically hazbin hotel… fucking hell the Vox popli song won’t leave my head.
          
          …oh and on the Legacy of gods thing, I’ve been debating on coming back and writing.. my verison of the next gene senice after Vaughns book in march unfortunately the LOG men’s stories are closed :( … but if I do it’ll be a slow writing passion project to do as I please and need a stress reliever. Or something to do when I don’t wanna deal with a strict word count for a project.
          
          And it’ll be a au filled with random nonsense senice it’s set in the future from those books—
          
          Anyways,
          Asher

When they leave you out,
          It’s kinda funny,
          That everclear just multiples,
          The pain engolfs you,
          Guess it’s time to contuie
          To be busy
          And offline presently 
          Senice they leave you out,
          
          Maybe cyinde isn’t bad,
          That’s why the story,
          Writes it self—
          Why the story’s are so angst
          It’s just pain,
          Written into poor characters.
          
          What’s a conconction that hurts less,
          Then human connection?
          
          Whatever. No.
          Fuck gifts and nice,
          Show the anarchy and pain,
          They say a drunk man’s words is a sober man’s..
          
          So what? If my vines fulled with anarchy & narcissistic nature, with the disconnect of laws and care about most people—
          So what if it’s fake?
          Isn’t that just society these days?

Human connection is like everclear,
          It hurts and kills you slowly,
          It’s so on and off, that it rips you apart
          You want to help you do,
          But then they act cold
          And you don’t,
          So the burn of the everclear is even deeper and burns more.
          
          Tiz the season,
          Yet it feels like cyanide would hurt less,
          The pain would end right?
          Last the scent being sweet is what you’d last smell,
          Before eternal slumber.
          
          So why is it like everclear and cyinde mixed together,
          Enjoyment died on the tounge with regret,
          
          Maybe fuck human connection,
          And society 
          It doesn’t do much but dig you’re forsaken grave,
          Because notifications have failed again,
          And you become busy due to winter and family time..
          
          Fuck this pain, maybe it’ll disappear at the bottle of the everclear bottle…
          Or the end of a book?
          

I’ve been meaning to set up the next story to post but it slips my mind schools been keeping me busy. The next book may wait until December— like after the 13th it’s when my term ends.

Something about the Christmas season brings me joy though I hate most of the songs—just like the season

Is light a thing actually there or is it just where the darkness became less dark?
          

Is love a thing,
          Or is it a word we say,
          Dressed up as desire and want,
          But we don’t know the definition anymore.
          
          /
          Is it something one can actually understand,
          Or is fiction the only definition we know?
          
          Is love — and the world becoming nothing more then what a book is? And that’s the new meaning.
          
          If that was the case I’d be in a stalker romance mix with the second chance or fuck boy trope.
          
          So what even is it?

Truly what the fuck is normal?
          It disappeared with my mental state,
          It’s a fucking tragedy.
          What are you ment to do when you’re 
          Coping mechanism is dying, 
          Motivation is to.
          
          What do you do when you won’t stop going a downward fucking slop? 
          When you fell like words,
          Are lies,
          Lies are what make love,
          Love is lies dressed in fools gold—
          Story topics are feelings,
          The attachments that need to burn,
          
          But why is it not calming the anarchy 
          Anymore?
          Jealously isn’t even their, it’s all black
          The 7 sins that make someone whole,
          Are gray,
          But what are you ment to do,
          When the pepole who once gave
          Color,
          Start to send you into a blank state?
          
          What the fuck is normal anymore.
          I never felt normal—never was,
          The world was in a different kind of
          Two-sided glass,
          But what stared back laughed at me,
          For my brain being wired 
          And “broken” by social standers.
          
          Is it normal to wanna be hit with the blunt end of a shotgun?
          The craveing to feel pain,
          But you don’t feel it.
          
          
          The pain once made you fell whole,
          Now it’s empty-and dark.
          
          Truth is… I’m going down a never ending slope, the fame, the writing everything I ever done was to make me feel normal—it worked for awhile. And now it shattered so fucking much.
          
          I’m not sure I can be saved.
          My minds not safe—
          Like a echo chamber cave
          Of bad emotion, thoughts
          About oneself.

          Insanity blooms
          
          The flower welts faster then it blooms,
          The world is as bleak as its dark hues,
          All that is seen is a cyclone of gray swirls,
          When something drives you to that point,
          The point where days blur— replay,
          Won’t go away,
          When memories envelope and scream louder then thoughts,
          And you’re told to just move on, but can’t.
          Fiction becomes you’re new reality,
          And you feel like you are stuck in a white room,
          Rocking back and forth—that’s all your mind is.
          That’s where he is,
          And that’s what I am,
          I’m long gone of that dark river,
          And not even irreversibly confused,
          It’s not I don’t want to move on—-I do,
          It’s I can’t, I close my eyes, it replies
          I open my eyes, the voice screams,
          It corrects a echo chamber of all you can hear,
          Driving you to be erratic—not think,
          And act on impulse,
          It’s not a excuse yet you can’t contorl
          It, it just happens
          
          You’re mind, cries it’s broken, shared beyond repair, the professionals,
          say you’re fine, medication doesn’t help.
          You loose yourself more daily.
          
          God how attachments suck.
          Look what they cause,
          Someone to break more then broken
          Should be—like glass, impossible to put back together.
          
          Inanity blooms, faster then you can catch it.
          
          
          

Lowkye feels like I’m in a stalking romance. I feel like someone is ligit stalking me but nobody is. God damn psychosis is fun. The days don’t feel like a new day, I’m still fucking stuck in August mentally from a fucking year ago—added on to this years.
          
          The voices are loud the medication doesn’t work and I’ve lost my self in every count.