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Why must poetry Be beautiful? Be sad? Be deep? Must it always Have morals For one To reap? We search for hidden meaning In each line of poetry In each word of poetry As if it were treasure Hidden by the pirates of literature For us to seek out And claim for our own. We look to poetry As a source of beauty As we look towards a flower Standing tall, petals tipped open As if wanting to embrace the sun and the sky, Colours gleaming in the light For our viewing pleasure. We seek out emotion In poetry As if we are emotionless ourselves And searching for replacements. As if we were empty shells of man and woman, Using poet

She is stardust leaving sweet bones in her wake.  A trail of poetic destruction conceived in verse--answering questions with kisses.  There is a hunger in her freckled constellations, like spider webs woven together with golden thread. Like the wild roses she braids in her hair: She walks backboned and head held high; the strongest of letters on a page left to rest in your mouth.

There Are Things Beneath the Garden: ~ There are things beneath the garden, Which you really shouldn't see. There are things beneath the garden, That don't belong to me. There are things beneath the garden, Gone rotten blue and black. There are things beneath the garden, In a dripping gunny sack... ~ There are flowers in the garden, Which you really shouldn't pull. There are flowers in the garden, That sit on top of wool. There are flowers in the garden, With a really rotten scent. There are flowers in the garden, Above bodies burnt and bent... ~ I love this little garden, It's a special place to me. I love this little g

When a writer puts his soul and passion into his work. It will go unnoticed, often because of its length. It is a rather sad fact, but a truth nonetheless. For the simple emotions conveyed in just a few words, Often hold more sway with those who are emotionally swayed. There is no depth of the heart, nor a single thought spared. For the effort placed into a piece that forgoes the winning edge, For a hint of true meaning. You will not read this piece and I will not expect you to. It will not be popular or famous, nor will it see the light of day. For length is the bane of true poetry, And that is why so many of my kin have already l

I feel your hands in my hair. I feel your breath on my neck. I feel your body pressed so close to mine. I feel your lips on my throat. I feel your hands move to my back and your lips work their way up to mine. I feel you and I love it. I hear you say you love me. I hear you whisper my name. I hear you tell me I'm the only one for you. I hear your breath in my ear. I hear your soft snores as I fall asleep. I hear you and I love it. I see you as I run into your arms. I see your face break through my world of darkness. I see you fight away my fears. I see you wipe away my tears. I see you're in love with me. I see you and I love

one.     When she cries herself to sleep     six out of seven nights a week you must     say nothing. You must simply take     her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,     pale cheeks and wait for her to     slumber at the sound of your heart. two.     On the days where she wishes she     were part of the stars, tell her     no. Tell her that there are too many     lights in the sky and that just one     would be forgotten the moment you looked     away from it. Tell her that she is perfect     the way she is: completely human. three.      Don't let her think about the scars      that no one but her can see. If she      says

It's sad, How people lock themselves up, In their own little world. We lie to ourselves, Say that everything's alright, Everythings fine. We wear the mask, And act the part, And say it's all part of the show. We live in boxes, See in darkness, And speak in lies. I't's our world That we live in, Why should it change?

Pain Hundreds of children yelling, screaming. Horrified wails that deafen you. The fear is tangible, So thick you can’t breathe, The shame of a thousand souls. And then, midst the howling, A faint cry of hope, A baby that has not yet fallen. A child that hasn’t been tainted, And the evil seems to be gone. Then a cry from the child. His voice joins the torment. Screaming.  All hope is gone. You Laugh When I hear your lovely laugh, And gaze in your beautiful eyes, I long to feel the warmth of your touch, And light your face with a smile. I make a joke, you laugh, you smile. My heart is filled with joy. The color

random words on the page speak of broken dreams and pent-up rage spilling out ink from the pen burn it all start again

If I hugged you, would you never let go? If I kissed you, would you cherish that moment? If I reached for your hand, would you take mine gently? If I needed a shoulder, would you let me cry on yours? If I needed to talk, would you really listen? If I needed to scream, would you do it with me? If I needed to go, would you come with me? If I fell for you, would you catch me? or just let me hit the pavement?

I. If this were a cliché, A poem, or both It would be about sparkling midnight skies and heartbeats and flowers and sex. There would be oceanic eyes and rain that tastes like tears. We’ll throw in anxiety-riddled murmurs and metaphorical bullets and allusions to sharp objects for pity. This is not a cliché anymore. So instead I wrote about the flavor of emerald and the fragrance of April hope. I painted pictures of a perfect pencil, poised over a blank page. II. If this were a romance, A message in a bottle, or both It would still be cliché, to capture electric fingers and longings locked away with skeleton keys

Depression is a choice, my dear, And happiness the same You choose this illness, don’t you? What a tragic little game. Depression is an option, love Just get up out of bed Take your tears and worries And just smile now instead. Depression is a choice, you see, And so is suicide. Just sit back, kick your feet up, dear Enjoy this perfect ride. Get over your own standards Of what everyone should be. Just smile for once, and maybe You’ll be living perfectly. ... But... Depression is an illness That we feel so deep within. Why would anybody choose To write poetry on their skin? Unless there lies a reason, dear, I would not choo

Love is when somebody gives you a shoulder to cry on. Love is when somebody makes you laugh when you're sad. Love is when you miss somebody whenever they are gone. Love is when whenever you see that person you feel glad. Loving somebody is choosing not to see their flaws. A human being will never be perfect. Everything that person does you will give a loud applause. Cause in your eyes everything that person does is correct. You want them to smile. You would work extra just to be with that person. Even if it would be just for a while. Love is unconditional, that's the truth.

He does not fight for the General barking orders, Nor for the man in a suit, who sent him across borders... In his pocket he keeps a single picture, a sole reminder Like ancient scripture. A home he misses so endlessly, Tirelessly calling out in his dreams at night. It is the last That remains on his lips, with his finger pressed upon the trigger. A single heartbeat, as he sights his enemy; A quiet prayer To rest in peace. Yet soon it fades, as hope is fleeting; For the little soldier boy, once marching home.  "Bottoms up buddy, I miss you..." -Chen Yuan Wen, 18th October 2012

Ah my dear, how are you feeling? Not too uncomfortable I hope... You see, you are another, Lucky individual. A wondrous being, handpicked by me, For you are perfect. Now then, Before you start screaming, Before all that noise and unpleasantry befouls these soft red lips. I've taken the liberty of removing your tongue... Wag, wag, wag; That's all it was doing when I extracted it. Like some, infectious insect But oh, I shouldn't raise my voice. That's not very proper of me, hehe. Now, let's put some markings on you. Mmm - I'm going to have to get rid of all this, excess. You see, I can't have a toy that's all bulging in the wrong places.

The woman in the mirror smiles with her tired empty eyes. Deep sadness now behind that smile she wears as her disguise. Without you, her time ticks slowly by, her minutes turn to years. Life goes on relentlessly like the drip, drip, drip of her tears. Another breaking dawn without you, it breaks her lonely heart. Another day alone without you, another day apart. How could she just live on without you, how could she just go on? Each passing day she longs to see you, each waking minute gone. Her life, it will go on without you, if she wants it to or not cos just like her endless love for you, the time will never stop. Poetry by Suzanne Karba

Dance with fistfuls of roses, shred their petals one by one and wear their thorns like armor. Write your secrets between the folds of paper cranes and tuck them safely between the empty spaces of your castle ribs. Open your broken heart to hummingbirds, allow them the warmth and shelter of your arms. Rebel. Tape poetry to your limbs, Cummings and Sandburg and Sexton. Take a walk outside of your skin for a while, run with wolves. Extinguish that forest fire that’s been curling too long in your lungs. Be that lionhearted girl those snobby poets always write about. Allow that cavern of stars in your throat to speak your truths in uppercase

[This poem has been removed as it lacks the emotional and verbal depth to be a real poem. When submitting please remember that a real poet is an outcast and eccentric, with real emotional trauma, and lacking these qualities nothing the submitter writes can ever be considered a poem. If you wish to re-submit your work, please follow these guidelines:  -o-  Please remove all instances of self-depreciation and any words that clearly allude to pain. These are "emo" and therefore not real poetry.  -o-  Please do not write about love if under the age of twenty-one, as an adolescent obviously knows nothing about such an adult emotion.  -o-  

Dear everybody, I’m not just moody. I have Bipolar Disorder. I don’t choose to have this unbearable depression, Where I sob uncontrollably and the most unpredictable times. A sadness that paints your entire mind, And drips Down into your soul. And you don’t know when it’s suddenly going to Change. Change, from being a terrifying unhappiness, To being such a fantastic happiness So spectacular, That you can’t even connect your thoughts with your own brain. Where you challenge the world, Because you feel bigger than a speck of dust for The first time in your Life. And then? It changes. It changes from being such an

.. last night I made a man out of pillows and forgotten fragments of clothes we'd pushed into my drawers. I held my pillow-man's hand and made sure he wasn't too warm because it is summer; I'm on the second floor; and that was always your biggest complaint. this morning I tried to shower but would turn off the water and run like a soapy dog, complete with loyal tail wagging, to the door thinking you'd come knocking. You hadn't. tomorrow will taste like the food of a week ago and I'll wear sunglasses, which, if you know me, (and you do) will seem out of context and like a little girl playing dress up. I know there are

I lay here.. I can't Sleep.. I think of you.. I wish you were here.. I need you.. I need you now.. I cry.. I cry for you.. If I could only touch you.. Just for a moment.. The whole world would stop around us.. The troubles would disapear.. Then maybe.. Just maybe.. I could sleep. But I lay here, Unable to.. I need you.. My one true love..

With a warm drink, whispering secrets to my own reflection. The struggles that plague me, though none may know, Are only for the ears of my quiet mirror, who smiles Softly, warmly and with care. He tells me, I'm fine I've done well for now and soon I may finally rest. Though the silence continues to press upon me, Weighing upon my soul like an iron crate. Still I find comfort in whispering secrets, If only to my own reflection - holding a warm drink... -Chen Yuan Wen, 17th October 2012