EmptinessI stopped cleaning my roomEmptiness2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
dust lays everywhere
but I'm confident the void inside me
will suck it all in
and leave my room
PersistenceI have a black old sweaterPersistence2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
some of you may know it
you've seen me wear it so many times,
too many... some might say.
it has a few holes
the sleeves are almost falling apart
there's a pink decolored spot
on the left side, near the stomach,
where bleach fell on it.
but it's my favorite sweater
and I still wear it very often
in fact I'm wearing it right now
while I write these lines
and though I don't attach myself to things
there are some that no matter how much you try
you can't completely replace
and you will always love
and you will always miss
after they're gone
Nature morteNature morte2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I tried to paint her
I had already set the background
the cold and warm colors, the surroundings,
the atmosphere, the light,
the soothing feelings,
the sheets on the bed, forever unmade,
a plate of fruits on the nightstand...
but then she left
and all I have now
is a fresh painting
d'une nature morte
with a plate of fruits on the nightstand,
the tortured feelings,
the atmosphere, the dust,
the cold and distant colors, the surroundings,
and her form, imprinted in the sheets on the bed,
Una mattinaAnd once again this morningUna mattina2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I have succumbed to sadness
For much too long been blinded
By hopes of the divine.
And on this cruel morning
I see, despite your kindness,
That I was always yours,
but you were never mine.
history remembers.i.history remembers.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
history repeats itself.
i realize this the fourth time i find myself on a couch
with the head of a boy i don’t know
between my stiff, nonresponding legs.
i realize this on the third sip of alcohol. on the fourth.
the fifth. the eleventh. the first time i black out. the eighth.
history repeats itself
and i am napoleon marching across russia
and i only pretend the water is poisoned.
i only pretend the earth is burned to ground.
i pretend that destruction is inevitable
and that help is not an option.
we got close, him and i.
sometimes you get so close to a person
you can feel their lips stiffen
when you try to kiss them.
sometimes you get close to a person,
under them, between damp sheets.
they never stop believing
that you are beneath them.
“help me,” he says. i say okay.
he tells me to sleep with him later
so i say the wrong name in bed,
but so does he;
he means it,
i say it because it’s the only way i can
GladiatorBeing an artist sometimes feels like being a gladiator.Gladiator2 years ago in Letters More Like This
Though the occasional flowers heal the superficial wounds or boost the ego after an exhausting fight, they do nothing to keep pain at bay when I go back to my cage.
Just like gladiators who die in the arena, spilling their guts out in the concrete and omnipresent dirt, just like the reality of the screams and wails covered by the cheers of the masses... so do I spill everything I feel on paper, for your entertainment.
And just like the cuts of a sword through the flesh, going down with a shriek on the naked bone, are real, so are the nervous strokes of the pencil real, and the words are real, and the pain is real, and the love is real. And this is the only way I can do art, and you have it all, the gore and the sublime.
And I will keep doing it this way until I collapse in the dirt, with my guts spi
The reality conjecture. Monolithic dreamsWhen you live so long among dreams,The reality conjecture. Monolithic dreams2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
they start shaping your reality
When you live so long without...
reality shapes you
Watched it burnKing being murdered upon the throneWatched it burn2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Dreams made out of solid stone
Learn to fly and learn to crash
Nightmares in a lightning flash
Life's what you get, not what you earn
Too bad you sat back and watched it burn...
Depression...No, depression is not just getting sad.Depression...2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It's a constant sadness that melts into your bones,
An indescribably heavy weight upon your shoulders,
Never mind your heart and soul.
It's believing so many lies (maybe because you've learned to accept them)
And no longer appreciating your self-worth.
Wishing you no longer existed, wishing yourself gone.
Depression holds you back from your dreams
And pulls you into a nightmare.
It takes full control of your existence.
It makes you never want to get out of bed,
And when you finally do,
You just want to get back in it.
But you know the hardest part?
After All..I am a flightless bird,After All..2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
And that's alright.
It can't be helped,
My wings have been clipped.
But not out of love.
My wings were clipped out of fear,
A fear that there are things I cannot do.
So I watch you fly,
Fly fly fly.
You beautiful bird.
You're so colourful and bright,
I'm nothing but a background dull grey.
Go and fly,
No need to wait up.
I keep clipping my feathers because I don't think I'm ready to fly.
You can sing all your songs to me when you come home,
You keep learning new ones every time you fly.
And each time you fly,
You fly farther and higher.
And your at a point right now that when you fly,
I can't watch anymore.
And when you come home,
I'm happy your back.
But I'm also sad,
Because deep down I want to fly away with you.
And be with you all the time.
So from my cage I'll sing my songs to my self,
The same ones I've known since I was young.
I'm too scared to fly.
NipponThe cherry blossomsNippon2 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
are always expectant
before an atomic explosion.
PhantomWhen lifePhantom2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
or whatever it is
that puts things together
and takes them apart...
it left me
with a phantom
and you are still attached
to my body
when I dance
and make love
What Are You To Me?What Are You To Me?:What Are You To Me?2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I have walked in this world,
And they have told me of kings.
Of brave rulers who make the tough choices,
Men of example and outstanding character.
But it was then that they said,
What is a king to a God?
What is a mere mortal to a higher power,
One who holds our fate in his hands?
They said he was benevolent and kind,
Wrathful and jealous, magnanimous and selfish alike.
He was the perfect ideal, embodying all things
And we were made in his image...
It was then that I was laughed at,
By he who asked this question:
What is a God, to a non-believer?
One who lives by the truth he sees...
He is the man who acts as per his morals.
He lives through his eyes and is judged by his fellows.
He submits to no higher being, not a one does he fear;
Comfortable with his own conscience...
But all three, I beg; I ask ye this:
For what is a king to a God,
A God to a non-believer,
And all three of them in comparison,
To the madman who watches the world burn...
DeceptiveDeceptive3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
Tempting with beautiful wings;
-Chen Yuan Wen, 4th January 2013
RainTodayRain3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
rain caught us by surprise
we started running for shelter,
but then you stopped
and, confused, I turned to you...
you gave me one of your big smiles
with your wet hair framing your sweet face...
we had forgotten
that the rain
was just another reason
to take our clothes off
if i could.1.if i could.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i’ll be honest with you;
there is a certain authority to being
somebody said once that writers struggle with reality
because we spend all of our time
constructing our own.
the truth is, life may be impermanent
but the details are not.
time has one direction
the past cannot be revisited
and history cannot be redone
with a red pen.
what happens, happens.
we are walking permanent records
that can never be expunged.
no matter how many orphans we pull from fires
no matter how many dying children we sing to
we still made our mother cry once
we still let our little brothers find us passed out
on the front porch when we were nineteen.
imagination is our primary retreat
because there, that boy does fall in love with us
and our first kiss is not spit on our chins
or misses landing on our nose
(maybe there are waves crashing in the background)
and we say everything right.
there, we have crafted a version of ourselves
that lives perfectly.
“if i could,” someon
infinite/opposite.being an adult means knowinginfinite/opposite.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that there are things much scarier
than spiders, or snakes, or clowns.
the ocean, for one.
losing your parents.
empty tequila bottles.
waking up, still reaching
for someone who left you
a long time ago.
i live like there’s an end for me
because there is.
plants will wilt.
forests will burn down.
eventually, even the stars will burn out.
people will come to us.
they will touch us. they will hurt us.
they may keep us. they may not.
but i never hold on too tight
because when it’s time, my time,
i’ll only be letting go.
the heart has valves
that constantly open and close
giving love, taking love.
and my best advice
is to be selfish.
know when you’ve had enough.
know when you deserve better.
close the valves and
keep some love for yourself.
know that you are perfect
even if you eat that second cheeseburger
because there’s magic in this world.
we’re proof of it.
is fear o
Ottumwa ShamanIn Iowa, weeping willows dream ofOttumwa Shaman4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Tigers, born in pagan fog, their
Coat of stripes singing shaman
Songs; shrill symphonies of grief.
Heaven tilts, crashes, and we race
The dirt to get away. We drink the
Earth with bullets of air and grow
Dizzy, light-headed from breathing
Some far off flame. Perhaps a poet
Who braved the fog of Ottumwa, and
Caught fire. Every cowboy has his
Six chances before high noon, before
The fog forms wispy jackals to take
Them home again. Every son inherits
An empty gun, six voids to fill with
Answers, skimmed and guessed from the
Covers of books their fathers used
To read. There is no other way.
In sleeping, I have been to Iowa,
And I learned where wiccans go
To make their bed. I do not know now
If I had dreamed the weeping willow,
Or if it had bent low to dream of me.
In Iowa, there is no such truth, only
Depth, and the shaman's song of grief.
BedriddenBedridden:Bedridden2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Here I lie, motionless,
A prisoner within my own body.
Yet there lies a subtle clarity;
A moment of understanding, achieved by infirmity.
And though my body is racked with pain,
My conscious mind delves ever deeper into the pool of the soul.
My mind is flooded with a racket of noise.
I am cast into the swirling rip-tide of forbidden knowledge,
Clinging to the flotsam of sanity as a Leviathan roars below.
It swallows me into an acidic whirlpool.
Drowning me deep beneath the bubbling surface of the past.
And there, in the murky depths where my very self begins to rot,
A grinning maw of tongues and fangs, bids me a cold "hello!".
-Chen Yuan Wen, 26th June 2013
Once Upon a Carcass,I loved her like the flaws in barbed wire;Once Upon a Carcass,2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it stung. & I needed to take her castle ribs-
but I was jealous of heaven.
She spoke through her bones.
She: a beautiful decay
draped along my apartment,
& the mess of my mouth.
When she left,
I cried big ugly tears
for the First Aid of her
I needed Draco.
I needed her.
“Is it sweet?” She meows even still
with all my self-doubt.
This thing, I must not feed it-
As I still long to leave galaxies
along the length of her entire bed.
FeverI like pretending I mean something to the ghostsFever3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
who wreak havoc on my bones-
impaling these masochistic butterfly wings
on railroad spikes
between heartbeats and bedsheets,
I got a heart in New Orleans,
palms engraving names like
Juliet, Alexandria, & Christine
on the seats of greyhound buses.
& I'm offering up 102 degrees of skin to a godless moon
as I breathe in her night scent.
Saltwater Burnsmend your brittleSaltwater Burns2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
poet fingers &
nurse your static head
cherry lips &
blue, blue fingernails
[girls like you are
Are We Not Free?Are We Not Free?:Are We Not Free?2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Ye say that nothin' changes;
That all we're tryin' t' do is fer naught.
Ye say that nothing's wrong,
That we should be acceptin' of our fate.
But why should we simply accept things as they are?
Are we no' a free people?
Are we no' allowed t' speak our minds?
Every man, every woman in this land,
Has the freedom t' choose their own path.
If our ideals must beg us differ,
Then that too is a part of the change that grips us.
What exactly do ye have t' fear?
If yer stoic in ye ideal that nothin' will ever change.
Why not simply ignore us;
A passin' flight o' fancy that we are...
Yet still ye try, ye attempt t' change our minds.
Ye pacify us with the notion of acceptance,
Highlightin' the fact that the world is fine.
Ye say that this is the way that things should be!
That m'friend, is yer personal freedom;
I'll not impinge upon it, fer it be yours.
I only ask, if ye could kindly mind,
Not to treat us, like we're bleedin' blind...
-Chen Yuan Wen, 18th July 2013
Bones mend, but tell no lies.You have cataloged your scarsBones mend, but tell no lies.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like your body is a library-
to be read through &
You think of
all the little boys
whose greedy fingers
You are angry-
cared for you
They left you
on a shelf
to gather dust.
should you ever