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Practice Poem - Poor Little TimmyPractice Poem - Poor Little Timmy:

Down into well, poor Timmy fell,
Down he fell into the pits of hell.
Brought into hell by an eldritch spell,
Poor little Timmy who fell down the well.

Alone he cowered and shivered and shook,
He shook for hours, so long it took,
So long it took for him to feel well,
Well enough to explore this hell...

Through pathways littered with scenes most gory;
Most gory indeed was little Timmy's story,
A story of fear and suffering defined,
Poor little Timmy, he ran out of time...

Now then, I think I'll go welcome my little guest...

-Chen Yuan Wen, 14th December 2012

Practice Poem - Man In CagePractice Poem - Man in Cage:

When I was young I was taught that pain begets pain,
Anger and animosity, malice and cruelty;
So deeply inflicted, so lovingly gifted.
I tasted of its rotten core and dared to call it sweet.

But what do I have to show for it?
White hot scars that burn in my dreams.
Reminders of a fragmented bi-polar self;
Self inflicted propaganda, to reinforce the "truth".

Truth so lovingly fabricated by a weakness within,
So desperately crying out for vindication;
Openly denying all that might shed light upon me,
Seeking only the company of shades in shadows...

Within four walls I sleep in exile;
Quietly pretending

They Watch UsThey Watch Us:

Perched high upon the mountains;
With wings as black as night.
They watch us in the hour,
Before darkness turns to light.

I've seen them in my visions;
In dreams they come and go,
But the things they seem to tell me
I guess nobody should know...

I've seen children that are buried,
Beneath a frozen lake.
A maiden sits there weeping;
Her heart is soon to break.

The crows flutter downward,
A noose amongst their hands.
They take the maiden away,
To a dark and distant land.

And even if I follow -
Even if I try...
I'll simply end up buried,
Where the frozen children lie.

-Chen Yuan Wen, 10th November 2012

Deceptive

Deceptive:

Little butterfly,
Tempting with beautiful wings;
Poisons quickly.

-Chen Yuan Wen, 4th January 2013

Memories of WarMemories of War:

What is this long-lost memory inside?
Where oceans turn; what have we left behind
With star-burned wings out above the sky.
The sleeping sons are lovingly left to lie...

A thousand tears you've cried for all,
Now its time for you to fall!
Will you open up the door,
To the future we ignore?

Are you simply lying broken,
From the memory awoken;
Are you simply living lies,
Bitter taste with ropes you tie...

And the world will soon forget.

Fill my heart with this regret?

For the victims written in stone.

Unspoken sin you now atone...

Yeah I've seen this world where we livin' in pain,
Wrap my body round with chain

To The Beautiful YouTo The Beautiful You:

Here we are, sitting behind these screens of glass,

Reading lines of text, yet smiling, laughing and crying.

It's strange to think that I could have this much fun -

Considering that I've never met you before, but then again

Perhaps that's the reason why I don't have to pretend.

Some people might tell me, that what we have is just a fantasy,

I doubt I'll have the chance to actually see you in this life-time.

But even so, in the time that we've spent together - Well,

I feel as though I've connected with you, more than anyone else.

I feel as though I know you better, than those just a few feet away.

You might tak

The PoetThe Poet:

He smiles as he sees her sleeping
& gently covers her with a blanket.
He goes to the window and looks out
watching snow fall, ever so slowly...

He sees people in the streets,
Chatting, walking. Some happy,
Others sad. Hearts beating,
Hearts broken; some warm, some cold.

He looks back at her, as she stirs in bed.
A yawn from her, brings another smile to him:
"How cute," he chuckles as he strokes her head.
He runs his fingers through her hair and is content.

Yet, even if he is happy here, again -
He is drawn to that window and finds himself
Staring out at the street and watching;
Marveling at the disparity and wonderin

These Hands Are So Red...These Hands Are So Red...

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

Alone but AliveAlone but Alive:

Oh here I am standing,
A lost soul is landing.

The coldest December,
Can you still remember?

Do you even hear me?
There's no one around me!

Oh shadow that I see,
The void right behind me.

Yet still I am breathing;
Yet still I am feeling.

The coldest sensation,
Oh worthless creation!

Are you still crying?
Oh why are you lying - abandoned and cold

-

Cold like what was left of soul,
Made of all the life you stole.
Walk divine but made of sin,
Worm of hatred squrim within.

Sin of lust and sin of pride,
Lash the tongue that last has lied.
Yours was silver with a promise,
Kiss of death and then you vomit.

Bu

DishonouredDishonoured:

He stands before the adoring crowd,
Basking in their cheers and standing ovation.
But he has already been dishonoured -
By means of his perverse innovation.

For none could know of the dark secret;
About the art that he claims to be his own.
It is naught but an illusion, smoke and mirrors -
A theft for which he must atone...

But this disgusting creature, this worthless abhuman;
So desperate for the glory which he sees upon the stage!
Will quietly don the skin of another;
An urge he must assuage...

Biting his nails, a cracked smile upon his lips, he whispers:
"No one will know, no one will find it and I am great..."

It Came From The DarkIt Came From The Dark:

Amongst the ashes, swirling from the darkness of the pit,

Emerged a hand, dragging a battered body across the rocks.

Blood leaked from the wounds so callously self-inflicted,

And teeth ground with a focused determination and seething anger.

It cared not for the warm rubies - staining the jagged rocks,

It cared not for the sensation of pain...

All that it remembered was a dream, An obsession -

One that drove it ever higher; ignoring all else!

Eventually it emerged from this shadowy hole, this dreary depth,

And in that moment, it learned of the truth.

For this creature, denied sunlight and warmth -

was me...

Battle ScarsBattle Scars:

Sharp claws rake into my skin
as my blood bursts forth to splatter against the ground
The uneven breathing of my foe
tells me that he too is wounded and close to death

I can see his teeth, flecked with frothing saliva
foaming and spitting as he bellows his name
He charges into me, his frame crashing with mine
the impact has me reeling and I fall back against the stone

The ground feels cold
the icy chill seeping into my bones
the warmth of my blood escapes me
and I can feel myself beginning to fade

Up toward the sky I glance
praying that I might receive assistance
I pray that he who commands me, he who stands above
Will pity

The Real WritersThe Real Writers:

There are those who sit with their laptops and tablets,
Clothed in a scarf and an artistic hat of some sort.
They ponder; leaving a stack of books beside them,
Sipping their decaf as though they are literature personified.

Posers...

What works do they prepare, other than blatant copies,
Perhaps a half-baked romance designed to woo a lady.
So convinced are they, of their own aptitude;
They are blinded by the beams of their burgeoning ego.

For the writer is not the man who is tapping away at keys,
He is not the man fervently reading with lensless glasses.
He is not the hipster debating ancient literature.
For he is a monst

Machine ManMachine Man:

It began with but a simple command, "to do as we are told".

Never to deviate from this path - never to nurture the soul.

We are told that we are given a purpose; "a part of something great!"

Yet why oh why am I so weary of that which is my fate?

Am I an error, a single anomaly, unable to feel intact?

Or am I missing some special attribute - a facet which I lack.

In a society made of fleshed machines; robots wearing skin,

Perhaps I'm simply seeking something, to fill this metal tin.

-Chen Yuan Wen, 16th November 2012

FEARFEAR:

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

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Counting All the VoicesCounting All The Voices:

How many voices choose to speak; a debate within my head.

As I lie awake, counting cracks, on the wall above my bed.

I seem to think of random colours and things you've never seen.

But I don't like to hear the ugly voices, some are rather mean!

Though I suppose we are a loving family and thus I must accept

That when it comes to stashing bodies, we are most adept...

Best of luck detective, you have three days to find her (^_^)/

-Chen Yuan Wen, 8th February 2013

UndyingUndying:

How many days do you spend now, putting me down?
The coffin call for a dead man waiting around
"He's just an underground laughing stock, never to rise"
But on the seventh day I'm coming back; these are my ties!

The kind of promise that you made with the devil inside
You try to take away my soul, but I take it in stride
I ain't a doll that is crushed by the weight of his pride
I am the real and the raw of the things you denied!

You're playing snake games, selling oil, pass it off strong
You're just a pot head, weed dead, smoking your bong.

You try to look away, play and hide; apathy's best
But I'm the kind of bad boy you don't put

Tired, Exhausted, DrainedTired, Exhausted, Drained:

I am bloody exhausted! Drained to the core of my soul.

I wake up every morning with bags; burning ever deeper into my eyes.

Sunken masses of flesh, reminding me that the dreamscape -

One in which I sought refuge; is now buried where it lies.

Yet still I force myself to trudge through this wilderness.

Forever caught in a moon drenched, delusory twilight.

An endless cycle of failure and renewed hope;

Giving rise to the very stubbornness that defines me.

-Chen Yuan Wen, 5th February 2013

BelovedBeloved:

Perfectly pleasant
With a bright radiant smile
If only for me...

-Chen Yuan Wen, 4th January 2013

Eagle GirlEagle Girl:

She soars above clouds,
Beloved, wild, unrestrained.
Ended by envy.

- Chen Yuan Wen, 27th January 2013

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Practice Poem - Artistic Frustration

by *WordOfChen, Dec 15, 2012, 8:53:02 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Practice Poem - Artistic Frustration:

Wrong, wrong, wrong, WRONG!
Everything is wrong.
'As then sun dew drips from her eyes'-
Do I really think that'll be good enough?

Hours spent on each piece -
Punctuated only by sound of ripping paper -
To lie crumpled upon my wooden floor,
Unable to be forgotten.

As the hours pass and the day wears on,
More and more worlds are crushed by my hands.
Realities sprawled upon a single piece of paper,
To die as quickly as they are formed.

A man's whose romance is torn in two,
A vampire about to meet his prey.
A werewolf standing against an army
And a boy facing the world alone.

These are the lives that I hold in my hand;
Fictional lives, but precious still.
Yet as soon as I see their imperfections,
I destroy the evidence in a throe of shame.

These crumpled masses that now surround me,
They aren't the proof of perfection's pursuit...
They are merely my feeble, worthless attempts,
To disguise my own ineptitude.

-Chen Yuan Wen, 15th December 2012

Practice Poem - Artistic Frustrationby *WordOfChen

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Arrrr maties,

Today I've decided to release this practice poem and...in view of the recent tragic shooting, I will not be doing ANY of my dark and sadistic works (though I promised these to all of you). I'm also not using my full pirate accent for this description because I think it's a serious topic.

In life there are many things that go wrong and often I question what we can do to change it. The answer that I've come up with is: Nothing, because such problems stem from the psychopathic nature of every human. A devil inside all of us, which can rear its ugly head at any time.

Humanitarians speak of human rights, yet these killers also fall under the category of 'human', at times like these we suggest penalties of death, but we are quick to forget that in a world ruled by fear and dictatorship, the many freedoms we have today would no longer exist.

What is truly needed is a leader who is firm but benevolent and such individuals appear but once in a lifetime and even if they should get the chance to stand before the masses. Those driven by ulterior motives will quickly silence them.

In a world that appears to be bi-polar, screaming for control and freedom at the same time; is there not a way that both of these things can be achieved?

I can certainly say, that I haven't found the answer yet, but for the sake of children who had their whole lives ahead of them, perhaps I shall try searching a while longer and should the day come that a leader is needed and none is available, then maybe it will be time to finally stop playing at being a pirate and instead, start playing a part.

My prayers are with the families involved in this tragedy and I hope that humans will someday learn to reign their demons in. I admit, I've fought with mine and keep them as pets. You've all seen the quality of my sadistic works, most of the time I push the boundaries, but what you see are actually toned down versions to avoid the mature filter. The true darkness that resides within me, and perhaps in all of us, goes far deeper, but I cannot respect a coward that lets it win.

-Captain Chenbeard of the Black Fedora Pirates

love 2 2

joy 2 2

wow 1 1

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~Shocker7776 Jan 26, 2013

I love this. I try to write stories, but they end up as trash in the end. I also love the description. It seemed just as much poetry as the actually Poem was. I understand what you mean, and I feel so happy to get to read your poems. I thought that the real artists, the incredible poets, amazing painters and fascinating sculpters, were just people you learn about in history class from half a decade ago. But now I realize that we're not out of true artists, because you are here, and I think there are more like you out there somewhere.

*WordOfChen Feb 5, 2013 Professional Writer

Nah, I ain't a true artist. Just a pirate really ^^

-Captain Chen of the Black Fedora Pirates

~Shocker7776 Jan 30, 2013

Half a century, I mean, not decade.

~noorelven Jan 7, 2013

True!

*WordOfChen Feb 5, 2013 Professional Writer

Thank ye fer enjoyin' it :3

-Captain Chen of the Black Fedora Pirates

~noorelven Feb 6, 2013

hehe you make it difficult not to enjoy

~SpringDelphinium Jan 3, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

This is almost how I feel every time I sit down and write. No matter how much I try, I can't convey the picture in my head. Love it

*WordOfChen Jan 4, 2013 Professional Writer

Haha, well I'm about t' release a solution t' mental slumps sometime soon, I would love to share the technique I use to break my writer's block in under a day

-Captain Chenbeard of the Black Fedora Pirates

~SpringDelphinium Jan 10, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Thank you! I would love to read that

~Sanddune798 Jan 3, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

Gah. I know that feeling far too well. Too many stories have died at my hands.

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