A Cure For Writer's Block[A Cure For Writer's Block]A Cure For Writer's Block2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
When your pen hits the paper and nothing comes out
With a full cartridge, something's about.
Sitting there lonely staring off into space
You've got Writer's Block mate, it's a terrible case
The symptoms are some of the worse things to *bare
If left untreated, might as well say a prayer.
Diagnosing the problem is the first step to take
So let's get it started before it's too late.
Do you find yourself doing, the things you've put off?
Or watching TV late at night till you cough?
Dusting and cleaning. Hunting for food.
Surfing the net since you've found yourself glued.
Hanging out with friends all night long?
Getting them together for a night on the Town.
Or lying in bed staring off into space
Tossing something up till it hits you in the face.
This list of symptoms can go on and on
Keeping you busy for weeks, whilst mentally withdrawn.
Now on to the cure which you'll see,
It's really quite simple like *growing a tree
To Block means to stop, the i
Colours I Never TastedIt is not worth escaping over.Colours I Never Tasted2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
No, sometimes the sun rises lopsided in the horizon and the
clink of glasses against teeth sets irate neurones off in your mind cavity
and fireflies extinguish on car windscreens in rain storms. Sometimes
August drops down into lake reflections and sometimes October never
sends a breeze to whisper into your ears. But they teach you that all of
that is okay, even when you're watching sunflowers writhe towards the
sun with grey blankets over humid-day hair.
There will always be a dawn. Stay awake for it.
You are not truly living until you have breathed.
And by that, I mean, take two feet and place them on the path
or the grass and inhale April. it doesn't matter if it is not April,
imagine the dandelions and the daffodils and the soft bleat of lambs
and that fresh scent rushing past your nose in long car journeys,
the one that tugs your legs onto the map and tells you 'this is home,
all forty thousand kilometres of it'.
The world is your oyster. Be the pear
We are human.We are not perfect, we are not angelic.We are human.2 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
We can be evil, but we are not demonic.
We are not Godly, though some might wish it.
We are only human, but no one will believe it.
I am myself, I am my own being.
I am not controlled, I am untamed and raging.
I am not normal, I am a freak; if you will.
I pride myself on this, I am not run of the mill.
I have some faults, as do we all.
But a few things I am a master of, as are we all.
We all have our fortés, our one special thing we're best at.
We are not Godly, but that doesn't mean we are any less than that.
We are all individuals, unique in our own way.
We are all good at one thing or another, we all have a perfect day.
We are not demonic or angelic, we are not Legion.
We are simply perfect in our imperfection; for we are human.
Dream OnA dream can beDream On3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a passing thought;
a passionate ambition.
A dream can be
a battle fought;
a superficial mission.
A dream can be
a driving force;
a forgiving comfort.
A dream can be
a thriving source;
a deceitful consort.
A dream can thrill you;
drive you or kill you.
Beware of this, dreamers
and Dream On.
A ComparisonI do not dare to speak of familyA Comparison3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
When yours was torn apart so suddenly
I do not dare to speak of funerals
When you had to bury several friends
I do not speak of depressions and mental issues
When your demons had almost got you killed
I do not speak of the darkness I am fighting
Compared to your hell it's merely a shade
You all have faced greater horrors
Than I can ever imagine
I never felt such intense pain
I never was already dying
What right do I have to be weak
When you survived so much worse?
I'm So TiredI'm so tired of crying,I'm So Tired2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I'm so tired of loving,
I'm so tired of dying
inside my soul each day.
I'm so tired of hoping,
I'm so tired of dreaming,
I'm so tired of imagining.
It will never be real anyway.
I'm so tired of falling,
I'm so tired of failing,
I'm so tired of walking
when love is so far away.
I'm so tired of wishing,
I'm so tired of searching,
I'm so tired of remembering
those beautiful things you used to say.
I'm so tired of bleeding,
I'm so tired of yearning,
I'm so tired of living
in a world that's grey.
But most of all I'm tired,
of being the person I am,
I'm tired of my mistakes,
I'm tired of my broken heart.
I'm just so tired of being me.
DenialDenial:Denial2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He stands before the mountains
and sighs, knowing that they reach toward the heavens
He begins his climb
his hands soon bloodied, his fingers digging into the hardened stone
He continues to drag himself
against the crags that scrape against his peeling skin
Unwilling to end his climb prematurely
though the rocks continue to slice into his flesh
Blood is drawn with a single desperate gasp
as pain rings out throughout his frame
His feet tremble and his hands grow numb
but still he continues to climb ever higher...
The winds threaten to throw him from the face of the mountain
and they slowly begin to waste him away
His body turns to dust and is scattered away amongst the clouds
But still he presses on!
Eventually, all that is left of this man
is a pair of hands clinging stubbornly to the rocks
and though the winds may blow, the man's spirit wills them on
Inch by painful inch they climb, undetered and utterly determined
For even if he lacks a body, even if he has nothing lef
SleepInstead of ripping the covers off,Sleep2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Shaking it violently,
And forcing cold breakfast down its throat,
I wish they would carefully wake a sleeping poem
And ask it gentle questions
Before its dreams are forgotten
FEARFEAR:FEAR2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Frantically he scrambles away from the dark
Eager to be free of his waking nightmare
Acting only upon the instinct within him;
Reminded constantly that he is prey
For some time he hides in the pervasive shadows
Earnestly praying that he will not be discovered
A single sound is all it takes to jar him;
Running from a creature that he can barely see
From head to toe it is certainly monstrous
Enshrouded in an aura of absolute repugnance
As the acid drips from its cruel jaws,
Rapidly dissolving the ground below
Fearful, he cowers, beneath boxes and cardboard,
Escaping away into a tiny corner of his mind
Alone with only his anxiety for company
Resting for what might be his very last
From birth, Ever-present, Always Remembered
such is the nature of FEAR
Writing poetry again Doctor Cecil? That's good!
You'll need a hobby to be working in an environment like this
-Chen Yuan Wen, 9th October 2012
Under The Murky WatersChildren of the first sinner,Under The Murky Waters2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Dragging his filthy soul at his tail.
He does not dare to look up
Where God's face resides.
Walking the earth; a pack of wild dogs
Scavenging the last pride,
Snatching what is left of mercy.
Down creatures, leeches in the murky waters.
Always on the move to a new pure land,
Hunting down every butterfly wing,
Slaughtering every young green bud.
Children of the massacre, slaves of the cannon
You have your hands down my throat,
Your knife sliding down my spine,
You say: "Keep your smile and greet Humanity"
I swallow the rocks; I wave for my brothers
I fell, I died , they walked over me,
all poets are used to deceitare you still savoringall poets are used to deceit2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the taste of deceit
off the edge
of your limerick tongue?
you know what i mean
you "poet of unusual sorts,"
chaotic green eyes
and skin of pale misfortune
leaving scents of sweet seas when oceans
begin to spite you.
yes, your silent panthers,
loyal only to the sound of sonnets
of broken piano chords
and keys and torn six-strings.
those slithe things will
prove to you
that betrayal is just eight letters
of pleasure undercover.
it's these little beauties that
will make you see;
every liar was an artist
and every poet was a whore,
just till the point
they owned you no more.
every limerick was a trap
and every stroke a cry;
and my every little breath,
sweet deceit strolling by.