you break it, you buy it.1. someone came up to me the other day, and told me
that if i didn't start using capital letters in my poems,
she wouldn't read any more of them.
i just told her in a quiet voice that i was tired of screaming
at people who would never listen.
the thing with me is that i always
read too much into things-
people, newspapers, fucks, metaphors.
and usually i fall in love with things that
could never love me back.
2. i destroy the things that mean
the most to me, and i've never gotten the hang
of writing in stanzas.
most days i walk around reciting numbers
and other people's poetry, but usually
i just count the seconds i spend falling apart and
avoiding the things that make me whole because
self-destruction will always be my forte.
3. broken people seem to have a way of finding each other.
like we work under this assumption that we can find
perfect in each other's missing pieces,
even though we all know two wrongs will never make a right
"do you want me to fuck you?" yo
stop me if you've heard this one beforei.stop me if you've heard this one before1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
there is a man on the corner of my street
who gave me a bottle of bleach
and told me if i drank it, i'd finally feel clean.
but i gave it back to him, and went home to take a shower.
because i am almost happy,
and i do not want to mess that up by
chugging bleach or fingering knives or thinking too much
about that man who turned my insides cold
from inside of his car.
because this has to be happy.
this has to be what happy feels like.
it feels like god gave me a vodka bottle
filled with nature and people and oceans and deserts and seas,
cause see, it feels like i'm drunk on life.
i have this nervous habit of scratching holes in my skin
and my mother says it's because
i'm trying to find something beautiful inside me.
she said i need a psychiatrist.
my friend asked me if i needed itching crème.
i keep laughing about stuff that's probably not funny.
i don't want it to rain anymore.
used to, i liked the rain,
because if i squinted, all the lines would be blurred.
Teeth, WristsnovemberTeeth, Wrists1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
kissed me blue
and cold and bitter;
eyes that cradle
the sun without
opening, and hands
that have forgotten
the way to heaven.
you are, you will bethis is meant to be heard: http://sta.sh/0ucuf9q2n29you are, you will be2 weeks ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
try again with more
conviction this time.
my body is beautiful;
its curves ascend more than the rugged
fall like contradictions from a politically
incorrect statement, my body is the
pavement of my mind's highway but these
trapped under the debris of
(not self-esteem, that requires
a mind-heart team effort)
my lips have kissed all kinds of
royalty; my hands have polished enough
crowns and sworn fealty to the right
people. my loyal legs once opened wider
for you to go deeper but I don't like
thinking about that, I don't like
start over and this time,
my body is beautiful; have you
seen how my hipbones curve like
(when you find me stuck between your
gravestone-teeth, will you promise to be
break me homolytically?)
seen how my thighs purge out of
society's idea of perfect, how my
knees have blackened with
Keepers of My Hearti.Keepers of My Heart1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
you are in love with being in love
like you're caught on the train tracks,
tied down by want, waiting for that
insistent collision to
steal you away into the land
of concussions and self-medication
and hearts that barely heal
and stories confessing the notches
in your bedpost, the lines in
your smile. the sour note in your
liberally dissonant melody.
you did not want tangibility
cotton trees cascading and butterfly
innards, serenading clouds and
(until the sky came crashing down
and you reoriented the earth)
you did not want me
I am solid and as notable as
the ghosts sleeping in your ears,
their snores telling time as
the days blur together
I am not of starry kisses and
back porch promises-
I am the wrong kind of accident
on the train tracks.
I am broken,
(but not in the right way)
I am real
these are the things we carry with us:
a knife in the side and a
cramp in the lungs; a longing
in the mouth for words or tastes
or people or something m
tear the skeleton from his comfortzonei want to build a skyscraper, seventeen stories hightear the skeleton from his comfortzone10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
and fill each floor with a story from the people who never said goodbye.
a middle child, born in 1994,
she always wanted to be loved the most
until she learned how to give a blowjob
in an alley behind Miss China’s Takeaway
at knife point.
she lost her childhood
to an ocean who always thought it was small
and never stopped pushing its borders.
he’s not sure how he’s supposed to live without her.
staring at the closed coffin, he loses the ability to want to.
it’s not fair, she thinks,
that the house creaks when she’s trying to sleep,
but when he leaves, it doesn’t make a sound.
nine months and a small coffin later,
she thinks she likes the name “amber”
“tomorrow,” he says as she passes him in the hallway—
him from math, her to english. “i’ll tell her tomorrow,”
a thought he had had for the
A Special Happy BirthdayA Special Happy Birthday:A Special Happy Birthday1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Your birthday is a special day,
It comes but once a year.
And so I've made this little poem
For those that I hold dear.
You've lived and grown another year
And now you've come of age.
It is time for you to show yourself
Upon this worldly stage.
Some are artists, some are troops
Some are sportsmen throwing hoops.
Some are writers, some are bad,
Some might be the best we've had
Others are fixers, others will fax
A gamer might use some mighty hacks;
There is a plethora of choices for you,
So do what in your heart is true.
But for today let us just have fun
Rock the world and then be done.
For a birthday comes but once a year
And yours my friend is finally here!
"Happy Birthday to you, I wish you all the best and may all your wishes come true."
-From Chen Yuan Wen, to all the November birthday kids, 5th November 2012
deflourgod'sdeflour2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
got a thing
for women in white dresses,
legs broken and
like the knot
of a dead man's
The WallI punched the wall.The Wall8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
The paper broke, a split lipped frown.
That was the thin veneer of joy you painted over my cracks with.
I punched the wall.
The paper bloomed into a paprika tulip.
That was the rusting screw in your jaw swinging off its hinge with your lies.
I punched the wall.
The paint broke into a smile
and I chipped out its teeth. They were the over polished hopes of our future.
I punched the wall.
The plaster spluttered out a storm.
Smooth and sleepy; I scratched at its eyes for promising to look out for me.
I punched the wall.
The plaster coughed hard again.
My anger was a consumption and its tendrils spasmed out from the source.
I punched the wall.
The plaster caved into a hole,
reminding me of all I'd given you and would never get back.
I didn't punch the wall
When the dust settled and its small red brick heart lay exposed, vulnerable, afraid,
You punched the wall.
These Tears Would Come:These Tears Would Come:These Tears Would Come:9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
If my tears could tell a story of two -
What would they have to say about you?
Of a boy who spent his whole life seeking
And a girl who found it in the arms of another…
Would they tell us of laughter? Beneath a starlit sky,
Or of harsh words exchanged on bitter nights.
Would they speak of moments, so beautifully captured;
To be enjoyed in memory, like a perfect wine.
Or perhaps they would tell us of an untampered truth:
Of the lonely nights spent longing, for an Eden lost.
Captivated, habituated, to this lonely habit of you;
For her alone, these tears would come.
-Chen Yuan Wen, 31st march 2013
ExcavationsIt feels like I’veExcavations1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Taken off the glass
Only to throw it out
In to an eternal ocean.
It did not slip off,
This was no accident.
As a consequence of
The mother star-scape.
I long for lock and key:
When will I hurt
I need someone
To hurt me
In your spider web
And eat my heart
Like a wild dog.
Leach off me
Until I’m as dry
As the moon’s
The magic out of our
And pour this
(I wish I had
first-class liars go to hellyou played juliet in yourfirst-class liars go to hell3 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
school play and fell in love with her
he played your fairy tales
just like he played his old fender
guitar, taking you along
for the ride.
and he used to tell you that your hair
reminded him of fireplaces
and christmas and
the "better times"
but i don't think he ever did tell
you what the "better times"
he was a smoker and
you were a ballerina.
in your act III,
instead of killing a tybalt and
threatening to kill
himself if he was separated from
you, he took a gun
and put it to your head, asking
if you ever did
and when you told him that
you would leave if that
made him happy,
he kicked you out, placing the
gun in your hand,
and you think that might've
been the denouement
to your love story.
you went home and decided
poison was too pretty
a way to die,
and you placed the barrel
in your mouth.
blood danced across the
cigarette hanging from his lips,
he sets fire
to everything he has
beaut(if)ulYou exist in thebeaut(if)ul10 months ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
space where beautiful is a
These Hands Are So Red...These Hands Are So Red...These Hands Are So Red...9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
These hands are now red and so slicked with this blood,
I can't even wash it in a basin of mud...
As I scrape at the skin of those demons I chase,
I am left with a smile mixed with pain on my face.
Since I swore I would savour this blatant disgrace,
Let perversion be writ in these scars I will trace.
From the tip of my shoulders to the base of my tongue,
Are the names of those sleepers so cold and so young...
-Chen Yuan Wen, 15th March 2013
At Least I Can WriteNever writeAt Least I Can Write1 year ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
in this state of mind:
that's what I keep telling myself
as I jot down every word.
Last night's anguish
came from having no woman.
Pinning you against the armorial
with lips pressed to my neck
behind walls so paper thin,
one would think the voices on the other side
were our own,
only we weren't speaking with words.
Almost is never enough.
comes from not having enough money:
grounded to the house
listening to what sounds like the neighbors
killing each other.
Oh don't mind me;
I'm just waiting for the checks to clear.
At least then I can over draw my account, again.
Tomorrow night however will be different
because I'll be entirely too exhausted
to care about either.
Mi vida loca is a cliché'
no matter what language you say it in,
but I can't think of a better way
to describe it.
.sooner or later,.2 weeks ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
the tooth fairy picks up a
hammer and chisel
scraps and sacramentsyou,scraps and sacraments10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
beautiful siren girl with melodies
entangled in her hair: you are
shell-shocked and sea-struck
even though you cannot stand
the sensation of sand beneath
you have fingers for prying, picking,
pulling at your skin and nesting
in that hollow space between
your bones. and if anyone asks,
you will swear there are monsters
sleeping in the concaves of your ribs;
there are ghosts beneath your tongue,
embittered, and you are not the words
they say there is an answer, little girl
(sometimes you begin to believe you are
a scarecrow on the border of reality
begging people to turn the other way;
and the mirror will agree)
how far have you gone? a feather in
the breeze who won’t promise to return
again; there is a wandering warmth in
the hesitation of your harbored fear.
where will you be in six months when
the future has become itself and you
are still astray? little one, no one is like you
in the way you sway to the cadence of a
dissonant night. no one knows your
ashes to ashesi am the girl withashes to ashes3 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
more faith in myths than in
there are more dead bodies in this world than the living.
and if that doesn't frighten you, then i
don't know what would. i guess you could
say that graves are just the closets in which
we hide our skeletons in.
there are ghosts all around us.
and i think that maybe,
i'd rather take my chances down in
the underworld with them than up
here where the earth is slowly
all because of the living.
lukewarmshe had the kind of voicelukewarm1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
that seemed to be stuck
in the hour of four o'clock
in the morning - soft
and tired and luring,
mumbling her way through
subways and tunnel lights
all pale yellow with noise.
there was tea and long baths
and longer absences,
hiccups of breath
she could do.
long springs and
one equinox to the next
and still the bad
was never that bad
and the good
was never that
and she continues to hum
the birds continue to sing
the apples continue to
and bury themselves
inertiai think i brokeinertia6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
some bones in my sleep.
i remember waking up
and saying i will do it in the morning.
my floor is littered with broken things
i meant to fix. there is a mosquito
in here growing fat on the things
i have intended to change.
the radio whose battery light is flashing
a slow sos at the darkening ceiling.
the piles of old letters stacked like snow.
the people who told me
they were lawyers and insurance
brokers in the elevator
one time at two in
the morning with the stench
of death on their breath.
the day my body stopped
my hair is growing longthank god for x-acto knives andmy hair is growing long5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
marking pins and heroine
addicts and you.
thank god for good music.
and thanksgiving meals and
grandmas and spanish teachers that
actually care about you.
thank god for
quizbowl teams and gay sponsors and
that give you strength even while
thank god for sandwiches and mothers and
thank god for blue gatorade and
little girls’ dreams and
leather ballet shoes.
thank god for hair bows and tutus and
a stage made up of glass.
thank god for hamstrings and
thank god for dazy
and little lion manes.
thank god for big paws and
wasp stings and
thank god for sally.
thank god for self-destruction.
and thank god for signs.
thank god for twin sisters and
best friends and
conjoined hips and most of all:
thank god for support.
thank god for love and
care and tragedy
and train tracks lit up in the dark
siren's abyssyour metallic voice drips off your tongue,siren's abyss6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
acid burning through my paper skin.
a siren song drifts though my mind;
i am a ship crafted from the daily news
being pulled in by your gravity,
sinking your raven colored abyss-eyes
and crashing into your rocky shores.
i fold paper for a livingpeople think it's weird - that i fold paper for a living.i fold paper for a living1 year ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
i sit by a park bench, chant numbers under my breath and bend each fiber of light, fragile paper just the way i want.
because it makes you feel powerful? you ask. and i sit there and smile at the words that twitch the sides of your lips.
i sit here and watch that simple square turn into a crane right before my eyes - with my hands - because i can make it happen. i imagine my next move, anticipate an outlook and create beauty out of the simplicity of what the bark of the tree next to the bench twisted into from the paper in front of me. because you've been ugly your whole life? you ask. and i laugh at your naivety and inhale the scent of the rain.
the musky scent seeps into the paper and carries itself into the presence of the butterfly i folded. and it sits on the mantelpiece with all the other folded paper i find beauty in. i watch them on cold November mornings, when the fireplace is lit and the clouds sig