Star-crossedYou woke up on
the wrong side of
a cosmic bed
A pillow of
under your head
are all the tears
which you have shed
Your ring finger
in outer space
among a dreamed
Your light shines bright
but not enough
to seize the day
Let your love be
then I'll wish to
Poetry,Poetry,Poetry,2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it’s like cultivating a greenhouse
with broken fingers.
Who Are You - I - KaniahliesWhen asked who she was,Who Are You - I - Kaniahlies1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
she panicked -
her heart blurred;
a humming pressure
behind the strikes of her ribs.
into the fizzling of anxiety.
Who am I? Who am I?
- 'Something wicked'
.i keep.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
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.
I wonderI wonder who’d careI wonder2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
If I’d crash and burn
At this very moment.
I no longer do.
I no longer have the fight in me,
Like an engine without oil,
I’m out of juice.
I feel cold.
I wonder what’s wrong with me.
I wonder why I’m still here.
I wonder about these tears rolling down my cheeks,
I wonder if they’re a sign.
I wonder if I've given up.
I feel as though I have.
My body’s still moving
Drawing haggard breaths
That rattle into my aching, empty skull.
I wonder why.
Green InkShe writes with green inkGreen Ink2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
eternal scrawls upon the page.
She wrote with green ink,
because it was the color of his eyes,
and the pond in the park,
and the seats on the bus,
and the grass outside,
and rose stems.
She wrote with green ink
even when her boss yelled
and the teacher screamed
and nothing worked out.
Because green was her favorite
and it was his favorite as well
even when he was sick while
his skin was green.
He still loved the color green
when the dirt fell down
when he didn’t recover,
the grass that bloomed
was the most angelic jade.
And she still wrote in green ink
because it was the color of the grass,
and his favorite color
and the color of his eyes
on his last final days.
the consequences of walking in circlesThe lady wore black and her eyes shone gold,the consequences of walking in circles2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
veiled face and veiled intentions, a smile
in her right hand, a dagger in her left.
Slicing with either in confident stride
like the sea-breeze slices across the morning air
and the ocean of her heart bled,
beckoning with wave after wave of depths untold.
When first I gazed upon lascivious lips, I pined
for the days of old, I dreamed of songbirds.
I spoke in languages forgotten. (or maybe never learned.)
I learned quickly the dark plays tricks on the mind.
She spoke, her voice was a shadow on the night's breeze
carried away on a landslide of eluvium. Her teeth were sharp,
and strangely intoxicating. Her scent, like gentlest whispers,
spoke to me of nurture and reminded me of death.
Her pupils were impossibly large. She smiled,
and I felt my will unfold like petals and fall away like leaves.
She stripped me of my outer bark, it fell away in clods of excuses.
I was adrift in an illusion of confusion. And her final wispy words
still echo in wha
do not marry a writer.do not marry a writer.do not marry a writer.2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
their only love is a pen,
or weapon of choice.
their only home is the mind.
do not marry a writer.
they will leave you for hours,
lost in different worlds.
pulling them out is like waking a sleepwalker.
they will never live the same moment again.
thoughts are lightning quick,
and will never strike the same place more than once.
marry a writer.
only if you want your body
transformed into words.
do not marry a writer.
if you are a flower
requiring constant watering.
you will die, and we will turn your ashes into l e t t e r s.
but marry a writer,
if you want to live forever.
Your Poetry SucksYes, roses are redYour Poetry Sucks2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
And violets are blue
But you have to understand
Who said they had to,
Its about imagination
Emotion and orignality
Not the reiteration
Of dead men's practicality
They are your sentence
To a world that has to listen
As you create the difference
Whether it be
With angst poem against love
Or how you set your heart free
To fly like a dove,
For these words
Whether or not they be true
Their beauty and ideals
Will be used to define you,
Hope ,in fact, has feathers
And like a caged bird it sings
But these words will only be tethers
That strip you of your wings,
Those are their words
Meant for their time
And meant for their herds,
But this your time
Meant for your words
And whether they be meaningful, stupid
Or completely absurd
I'm sure they'll be amazing.
Lasting Impressions.It crossed my mindLasting Impressions.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And lingered there
Like footprints in concrete
It invaded my heart
Made it home
Like a bird nesting
It lifted my soul
On waxen wings
I flew too close
Now I ask myself
My eyes closed
Was it worth it?
You should never attack a poet,we are the best at exploiting weakness.You should never attack a poet,2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the night you took a scalpel to my chest
& fed my heart to the stars,
you told me i could hate you
if i needed to.
with an exorcism
i tried to cast you out
of my body.
i was contorted limbs:
the language of tongues
trying to find myself
in the cosmos
of lit kerosene fingertips,
& the kinds of habits
that only choke me at 3am -
when my eyes aren’t yet heavy
enough for sleep;
my mind tells me to do awful things.
between fucking &
you are the calories
in the mathematical equation
i think of shy moons
and i don’t eat for three days.
you only liked me
when this poetic tongue
space shrapnel aside-
you’re too far down now
for even the stars
to graph you into their maps.
five second suicideand as i pour myself out on these canvasesfive second suicide1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
i drip over the edges, spilling dots of
absence on the hungry earth.
they call me jane doe,
and i am not art.
every evening, i close the door,
close my eyes, disassemble.
slowly, i've become fleeting.
i float, my feet don't touch the ground.
how can i crash?
i fade, i dissolve,
but i've lost the motive to explode.
there's no glory in my death;
i leave no trace of the dramatic.
a man on the train last tuesday
nudged me, apologized, and carried on his way.
he's the last person who's
spoken to me since then.
we hit a notch in the tracks,
the car wobbled.
i stared at him silently,
counting the infinite futures
that suffocated behind my teeth.
i'm dying in my own penitentiary
with the cell door key in my pocket.
lies, she wrotei. just a mimicry, really;lies, she wrote2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
desperate to shine.
ii. counterfeit & clockwise,
tasting words on her
iii. with a dysfunctional mind
& apocryphal dictionary,
she cannot clone it all.
iv. "say anything," the pen
whispers as she trembles
among ink-scented fraudulence.
v. but she just laughs & plays the part,
forgetting what the pages told her:
"truth is stranger than fiction."
Graduation DayGraduation Day:Graduation Day2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
They told us we would be alright...
We had fought with honour and won our titles.
We had overcome trials together -
Watching dozens of our siblings fall in the line of duty.
For this they had promised us, a wondrous welcome;
A bountiful world of adventure, with a myriad of paths.
All this, they said, awaited us in the stone cities.
Large metropolises, where the working folk resided...
There were hundreds of us, who made that journey.
Walking miles across the scorching desert,
Clinging to a hope of the fortunes beyond.
Yet what awaited us was not a promised land -
Nor was it a life based on the merit we had earned...
Instead we found ourselves quarantined,
Pitching tents of inexperience-
Huddling together for comfort and warmth;
As the great gates of employment stood eerily silent.
-Chen Yuan Wen, 18 June 2013
ThinkYou say I`m cold.Think2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You say I don`t want to be friends.
You say I keep to the shadows.
You say I don`t like people.
You say I`m weird.
I`m not cold, I`m shards of a person.
I`d love to be friends, but I`m scared.
I keep to the shadows to stay out of sight.
I like people but I can`t trust them.
Would you be warm if you`d been broken?
Would you be friendly if stabbed in the back?
Would you walk in light if darkness surrounded you?
Would you like people who made you want to die?
Would you be different?
Before you judge, make an effort to see.
Surfaces have depths, people have sadness beneath.
JittersMARTYJitters2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Ok. This mess is called Jitters.
Teacher gave me a one-word name
On the first day of the third grade.
She labeled me with my condition
And so sparked a life-long tradition
Of insecurity and anxiety, cyclical
Critical hits dealt to my clinical tics
By cynical pricks so I set adrift
Across a rift between me and every other fucking kid I ever dared not encounter, fearing the ridicule they would pursue.
A few years later we went to the zoo.
A tarantula, gargantuan, yet trying to hide
from our view in a viewing tank
With sandy banks and small cacti
Yet we could not avert our childish eyes.
“True,” said teacher,
“You’re probably less afraid of her
than she is of you.”
Classmates nonetheless crinkled noses and said ew.
But meekly I whispered, “I’m just like you.”
Wish I were as sneaky, lord knows I’m as creepy,
people think I’m freaky, but I’m just like you.
Dad got me a baby tarantula that year.
I gave him the sam
i am a magenta february.Winteri am a magenta february.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is still clinging
to my skin,
sleeping within the tangles
of my night witch hair.
65 days to learn
& Icarus, with his
sun kissed fingers
my throat, giggles
knowingly in my ear.
I have misplaced my
of a heart
so many times,
I’m not even sure
it ever existed
they never lie-
Covered in frost
I am a magenta
the imprint of teeth
that bruised centuries
& bed sheets.
Poetry AnalysisI was given poetryPoetry Analysis2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Told to pin
her arms and legs
down on my paper;
Take my pen & tear her open
Expose her limbs
And rearrange her vertebrae
to fit my selfish needs
But what the teacher doesn't know
is I already let mine escape
Clutching to the secrets
that still remain inside her
Where they belong
DesperationI wonder how many days you've spent feeling lost.Desperation2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Thinking that you're going somewhere.
Never actually getting anywhere.
You look at the same four walls over and over again.
You can paint them in different colours,
But you know they're still the same.
And you convince yourself that you're making progress,
Nothing's changed, but you're making progress.
Things are getting worse, but you're making progress.
And then you wake up and realise,
That shit has hit the fan...
Suddenly you're forced to do the things you couldn't,
The kind of things that you were never comfortable with.
And you find out you can do them.
You find out that the only reason you couldn't,
Was because you were afraid to try.
It's hard - trying to take that first step.
It's hard - trying to convince yourself to take that chance.
i don't think im alive enough to die yet.we used to play russian roulette on dingy street corners,i don't think im alive enough to die yet.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
cigarettes hanging from soot-blackened lips
and morphine running rampant through our drugged up systems.
i remember how i was always shot.
you ran away when i didn't die
and left me to bleed out
onto the cold concrete.
but you don't understand-
dolls and wallflowers are empty inside,
and hearts constructed hastily with broken matchsticks
don't beat true. it's just dull thumping
in a hollow chest cavity.
(and even the best dentists can't fill this one up.)
Poets And Artists.I am self-destructive.Poets And Artists.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
You are the affected.
I’m a thought that’s still in motion.
You’re an idea perfected.
I’m a sacrifice without you.
But with your life, I’m injected.
I’m a thousand puzzle pieces.
You’re the way to connect it.
Otherwise Good ConditionI have worn the same dressOtherwise Good Condition2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for four days, because
I am sick, exquisitely
black and gold, your drunk
dimestore Nefertiti. A
white stain announces
itself, a muddy star:
here. Undo yourself,
those sallow words you drink,
let the silk fall loose. I've got
a face like dirty laundry
and burial grounds --
What I touch becomes
unwell. I wear my hair
like it pains me,
like a little girl
sucking her teeth
at cars, the caked little
tombs of sugar that crumble,
under the hot milk
of the sun.
Life Boats for Paper DollsI still throw salt over my shoulder becauseLife Boats for Paper Dolls3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it makes the devil thirsty.
He drinks from an oaken bucket.
We can live our lives without him.
I know a tree in Pennsylvania.
A girl nobody saw leaned against the moss
every day after class.
She wrote in a journal as ants
crawled between her silent fingers.
The summer I turned eighteen she tried to
hang herself from it
Not the journal.
I suppose our words may often feel like gallows.
You never forget the first time you
taste sour milk.
The feeling of time's betrayal.
Some things still have to be taken on faith,
not expiration dates.
Today, I saw her under a tree in Minnesota.
She still writes about damnation but only with a smile.
There is something beautiful about rotting wood.