I am but a pen,
Not even a sword.
I have naught but words,
No skill may I afford.
Truly it is sad,
That it has come to this.
But if you are in need of writing,
Then let my words bring you bliss.
So tell me, what would you have me write tonight?
Lie to MeThere are those who stare into the water's edge.
Gleaming eyes fixed upon their reflections.
I am beautiful! they say to themselves,
And all of you must accept that as true!
To say otherwise would be a social suicide.
Their friends will defend them to the bitterest end.
In a circle of illusions cast by the group,
You are forced to accept this person as 'pretty'.
To me you are not beautiful, you are simply lazy.
You have done nothing for yourself,
And now you wish me to accept you?
But I must tell you the truth.
And though that truth may wound you,
I believe it is for the best:
Because girl, dayum! You just look so bad that my eyes are cryin' YOU a river.
- Chen Yuan Wen, 11th August 2013
Are We Not Free?Are We Not Free?:
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
What Are You To Me?What Are You To Me?:
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...
What's Left Behind...Some days I find myself staggering from this hovel;
To stand with shaking legs upon the window ledge.
I look down at the tiny world below, wind rushing before me;
And I wonder if I'll be able to fly tonight...
The caress of the wind, so gentle upon my skin.
One step, one leap and I'd dip myself into the eye of the storm.
But just before my courage sends me;
Just before I take the final plunge.
I find myself looking back, at the world I'd leave behind...
Stacks of paper and a pot of ink,
Reams of stories too precious to burn.
Ideas and fears both rolled into one;
And pages of poetry left undone...
It always leaves me smiling...
For these were the treasures so close to my heart.
They are the wealth of my mind; my soul, my art.
And I could never ever leave them be,
Where another might burn them, without thinking of me...
"Apologies father, I cannot join you yet:
For in this world, a treasure still exists.
A treasure tha
I Am The Mighty!I Am The Mighty:
I remember this tale, from a time of brutality; from whence I would have gladly murdered a soul. For the fragile seek to transcend their pain, but ever are they poisoned by it.
This man I remember had called himself ‘Mighty’ and I watched from the stands as he delivered his speech. “You are the fools!” he cried to the audience, “for even as you mock me, I am whole. Through tragedies I've suffered, through pain I persevered. I am a greater man and your words may never hurt me.”
Fool, is what I thought, for he seemed to take pride in this display. The crowd cheered him on, patting him on the back, but to me he lacked conviction. For I saw through the sham in his boast and I knew that his demons would haunt him again. This time a little earlier than needed.
“Yes my friends, I am a damaged man. I have been broken before and my spirit shattered,” he continued to ramble, as I drew close to him.
You've suffered enough...My dearest child, do not weep, for I am here to wipe your tears away. Come, let us be free of these blankets; let us walk from these dim halls.
There lies what once was your body, fevered and eaten by disease. Your lips are cracked and bleeding, your arms are both thin and sallow. Do not fear them now, for they are long passed.
Come away now, for we must say your final goodbyes. Here to the mother and father that came to your bedside each day. Here to the brother, who shall honour your name. Do not be jealous of them, my dearest child. For you are simply moving ahead; you have not fallen behind.
“But why, why does it hurt so much?”
Why? Because the memories are still carried within you. Your attachments are still strong in this world. That which you didn’t achieve, that which you haven’t done. All of it is carried as chains upon your body and they will stop you from
Dear Father I Loved You, But...Dear Father, I loved you,
But this truth I shall say.
That you were the demon,
that made me this way!
And though I am hiding,
It's hard when it's lurking beneath:
This anger and hatred,
It's all I believe.
So don't speak or I'll hurt you,
I'm sorry, I'm sorry,
But you are the ending,
Of this broken story.
So tell me, dear Father,
What can you say,
To boy whom you twisted;
When you pushed him away.
Love Beyond the WindowWhen I was young, I believed in fairy tales.
I believed that if your heart willed it,
That love could overcome anything.
That one day, two lovers could always be together.
But those were simple lies I think...
After all, how does one reach across a window;
Reach across a screen...
To hold someone on the other side,
Before they slip through your fingers.
Like a lonely dance between air and water,
I can only stand on the surface of the lake,
And see her smiling on the other side.
Sometimes, I would draw pictures on the surface;
These thin useless arms of mine scrawling tiny doodles,
And she would smile and reply to each one:
Including a heart, for 'I love you'...
And each time I would feel,
As though I could soar through any distance,
As though I could run a hundred miles.
If only so I could see you;
If only because I missed you...
But enough I say...
Enough of this life
DesperationI wonder how many days you've spent feeling lost.
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.
Living With A LieYou sit there shaking; emotionally frozen.
You check the time on your watch, despite knowing it already.
The ever-present numbness, the cold feeling which clutches at your soul;
That is what you feel upon the dawn of the lie.
To know its nature, to know its being;
To have it spill upon your awareness.
What words would surmise such a bitter feeling:
Perhaps the use of dejection, p
Song of RaineShe scatters the seeds with her tiny hands.
And pictures the sunset in a distant land.
She dreams of places, where she'd be free.
With clouds as far as the eyes could see.
And there she'd dance to the song of the rain,
While I would watch from my window pane.
With a smile befitting such a lovely girl;
The daughter I lost, to a cruel world...
Sweet SerenityI have searched the very depths of my being,
Seeking the essence of the void...
To understand its nature,
To become a part of nothing...
For where else can we be free of turmoil,
Where else can a beaten soul go to rest?
If not in the comforting embrace of eternal oblivion?
Such is what I seek, away from the noise that burns at my ears.
Away from the many voices that drill into my mind.
For these are not the whispers of psychosis,
Nor the delusions of a twisted psyche.
Instead they are the whispers that are heard all around us;
The whispers of the every-man.
He who desires the body of another.
He who desires the fat of his wallet.
He who cares only for self-satisfaction
And He who wishes to stand above all.
Voices, voices, noisy voices...
Eternally spitting their foul words into me.
Even in the realm of fantasy I can no longer escape!
For they are here, and I read their words scrawled across th
We Were SoldiersYou'll never hear me say that there's glory in war.
It is ugly, it is painful, it is frightening...
But I know, in my heart;
Deep within this soul born of freedom.
That what I do, at times, is a necessity.
It is nerve-wracking, most days,
Knowing that when you wake up you may not make it home.
But still I am proud,
Because of what I have managed to achieve.
And tonight; I hope that you're proud of me,
Because I'm sending a hundred of my boys home.
I just wish that I was joining them this time...
The Nature of LeadershipMy friends,
I come before you as a Captain, but one who has learned from the ways of the past. I address you now to speak both of myself and of the belief that I hold for the future. We are humans, creatures of free thought and free speech. We gather in groups, connecting with those who are like-minded. We form these bonds because it is impossible for us to live alone, but even then, we think and act as freely for that is the gift of our being.
Yet even such gifts can be abused at times. Often we do not realise that the weight that our tongue may be enough to sink another in grief. Each word that we speak must be chosen carefully, for the power of the speaker compounds the weight of his speech. Some, carrying their first spark of greatness, might take this too far and abuse their strength. I was one of those individual, if you had known me in my early days. I spoke carelessly, without concern for any other and I viewed this as my given right. Indeed, I was shown to be very wrong.
Secrets Should be SilentSecrets Should be Silent:
What is in the nature of a secret?
It is not to be known, nor to be seen.
It is that which we bury beneath layers of deceit.
Why then, do we bury poetry?
why then, do we bury prose?
Why secret that which is meant to be seen,
And showcase that which is meant to be secret?
Are the words of our soul less important,
Than mere phrases designed to seek attention?
Are the words that we carve from experience,
Taken as less than a general phrase of emotion?
...No, I would hope not.
For I do as any other might,
And my skeletons are kept under lock and key.
For a secret displayed remains secret no longer;
Merely a gossip's fancy.
-Chen Yuan Wen, 6th July 2013
Under YouUnder You:
Beneath the surface of the water,
There is silence, peace and darkness.
To mute the mouths of men,
To drown the voice of the world.
Surrounded by ignorance,
I choose not to hear your whispers.
Without death or pain,
Without birth and life;
Surrounded by denial,
I reject this sense of self.
Without colour or light,
Denying all that is around me;
Surrounded by emptiness,
I am blind within this cage.
Muted, ignorant and blind,
I sleep beneath the surface of the lake.
Eternally drenched, eternally drowned,
I am the you beneath the surface.
-Chen Yuan Wen, 8th July 2013
Into The Mental AbyssInto The Mental Abyss:
To the edge of the very abyss I have travelled.
With worn feet, gone bloodied and bare;
Dragged upon stones that stretch like sharpened spines,
Leaving tattered spoils of flesh in my wake...
Even so, I am incapable of halting;
Like a zombie, I remain numb and hypnotised.
Shambling ever onward, toward the glimmer of light.
Eager to be behold the 'she' that awaits me:
A wonderous wellspring of inspiration and knowledge;
Perfect, yet fragile, in both shape and form...
It is her majesty, her radiance,
That leaves me drained...
Alone in the depths, I am humbled and awed.
Yet the admiration that I feel soon turns corrupt,
It renders my thoughts both dark and cracked...
For if any other were to find her,
They would wield her as a weapon.
They would have no need for inspiration.
Creative thought would be an utter simplicity:
Leaving a perfect world, without opportunity...
Indeed I could never share such a thing.
Jealousy leaves me ugly, but still I c
Listening to Voices...Lazy to read this? Scroll straight to the description for the audio narration!
The moon tonight is brilliant, for it casts an eerie-looking shadow upon the moss and the stone. At times I find myself wondering, is that me that I see? Or is it merely another side of me, one that hides amongst the shade?
Ugh, that horrid moaning! That evil rattling, rasping noise! It's driving itself into my skull again, like an annoying repetition that I can't seem to quiet. It screeches at times, like nails upon a chalkboard. It buries itself deep into the recesses of my mind and fills the hole with rot! A fetid fungus spitting serpentine venom from the eyes of a fox!
What? What are you saying? What do you mean! Tell me god damn it!
Ha...Ha...I can hear myself breathing; barely through the fog. The sound is far away, like the deeps of a bog. I can't believe that I'm rhyming, what the hell
Bones mend, but tell no lies.You have cataloged your scars
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
The Right Hand Curse ReversedEverything that my right hand has ever written
Comes from the heart and mind of a boy that is cursed
So from now on I’ll learn to write with my left hand
In hope not expectation that this curse will be reversed
And then I shall sit in front of an open fire
Unflinching as each flame licks closer to my face
Not close enough though so it could swallow me whole
But just close enough so that it can have a taste
Of the beads of regret in my perspiration
That are forming and rolling down my furrowed brow
From a wildfire mind that is now out of control
Come thoughts that these damp morals fail to disallow
Everything that my right hand has ever written
Might as well have been scribed in invisible ink
With my thoughts being a vessel on a voyage of hope
And the weight of my memories causing it to sink
Right down to the depths of the deepest ocean floor
And left down there to rot beneath the sea bed
I thank the Lord that they’ll remain out of reach
And that none of the words I’ve
In my head...In my head,
The birds that fly above me
Are the dragons of my kingdom.
In my head,
Cats and dogs are lions and wolves,
And my fish is a sea monster.
In my head,
My pen is a sword,
And I’m fighting witches and evil men
To find my prince charming.
In my head,
Butterflies spin through the air
And fly through my bedroom windows
To whisper things in a language
That only I understand.
In my head,
There is a world other than
These black and white dreams
And these faded grey skies.
In my head,
There is a universe.
Can’t you see it, too?
One Like WaterWe speak.
We all live.
We all die.
So tell me again.
make us so different
from each other?
HomesickThey say home is where your heart is.
Right now I wonder
if that means I am away from home,
lost on the road
between here and there,
or that I am
Lost NovemberI am lost November,
with the breath of winter
at the hairline of its neck.
I am the blood orange that
sours a little too soon.
A thirty day intuition
to a season of good will.
A blip on the side of
the road that melts easily
out of sight, out of mind.
An unremembered instance
on a torn index page
of a forgotten, spineless book.
I am lost November.
Remember me the instance
when you feel unremembered too.
confessions of a misguided poetcertain things in my mind
would be better left unsaid,
i. how I stared at a bottle of pills
for an hour as if they would slide down
my throat on their own.
ii. when I stepped out of the shower
with bloody knees and didn't bother
to put a band aid over them.
iii. why I can't keep a smile long
enough for someone to take
iv. who I wanted to be when I was
a little girl and who I am
right here and now.
v. where I tried to jump off a
bridge and landed in water
deep enough for me to swim in.
vi. what I wanted to scream at
you that day but I just stayed
silent and hoped you would forget.
no more pretty words and
today; just life,
the truth, and everything
that I never want to tell
Another Language called EnglishI took your adjectives for granted. There was something about the way you skipped over your 's'es and gleaned over your 'i's and 'e's, that never really made me want to kiss you. You'd sit there with your languid fingers clutching a book that was half finished, and read me words that were completely mispronounced. It would prickle me under my skin and I would grit my teeth, wondering when you would stop. I would never understand the english language you thought you spoke, and your confidence in your own words annoyed me.
It was comical when you spoke in front of our friends. Your mistaken pronunciation of the word 'pronunciation' in particular made them giggle. I would stand in a corner, clutching a glass of rum and coke and cringe, flushing in second hand embarrassment. You would smile at me from across the room, and continue with your tangled tongue as though nothing was wrong.
I felt sorry for you. But not sorry enough when you took your favourite writing pen from my d
A Little Bit of WonderlandHer name was Alyssa, and when she was nine, her mother built her Wonderland. After being raised on a healthy diet of Charles Dickens, Enid Blyton and J.M. Barrie, it seemed like the natural course of action. She created it out of paper, each scene indispensably, indisputably perfect in its imperfection.
And she did it because Alyssa was terrified of the idea of falling through a rabbit hole, into a place that allows magic only when you are confused. Mothers do the most impractical, exhausting things to show how much they love their children. It seemed a pity that it was this very effort that kept Alyssa up all night, staring at the paper people like they were coming to get her.
(If Alyssa’s mother knew, she would have spent all her time trying to explain to the little girl that it wasn’t just paper people she should be afraid of.)
God appeared to have a sense of humour when little Alice became Alyssa’s best friend. She lives across the street, her hair always