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Dear Writer, I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. Unfortunately, I need you. I need you to tell my story. I need you to create my world. I need you to set me free. I need your fingers typing on those keys, I need your mind riddling out the problems, and I need you to plough onward and upward no matter how hard it gets. Sweat, blood, and tears, I don’t care. You’ve got to fight this war, battle at a time, and win it. So I can be more. It’s a slim hope, but it is the only one I have. In your head I am bound to mortality, frailty, and the limit of your meagre imagination. Out there – out there – I

It is painful at times, Seeing those born with skill and talent. They paint such beautiful things, using the barest of material. Entire worlds are spun at their fingertips, all from a dot of paint. I think sometimes, of how nice it must be, To be able to capture such beauty, within the borders of a page. To spin a tale from but the smallest of phrases, To create a fantastic adventure from a mundane experience. It is painful indeed at times. When I am seated in this room, Surrounded by the dull hum of failure and regret, I ask myself, with eyes burning in the mirror, Am I finally ready to give it all up? 'No!' I say I will not let it end

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.

You taste like decaying leaves and October's bad habits- when it’s halfway through February that still haunts these bones. I have allowed you to claw your love into my arms and chant into my uninterested ears for much too long. I wish I was one of those girls who could say wild flowers grow up through my nooks and my crannies just to tear through my skin, screaming. I’m just that dead eyed deer on the side of the road dreaming of shoving a pen down my throat and writing these verses inside out. I am no scribe, prophet, or spell caster. I know it. My skin knows it. My pen knows it too. Years and years from now my mind will d

I am the shadow, and I am the light I am the sunlight, and I am the night I am the battle, and I am the fighter I am the water, and I am the fire I am a raindrop just ready to fall I am the world, and yet… No one at all.

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

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?

To 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

I tried to count my scars, But I couldn't tell Where one began And another ended. So I tried to count the cuts, But I couldn't, because Blood smeared across my skin, Connecting them like a thin, Red veil of pain. And so I cried. I cried a single tear, because When I need to cry, I can't. Finally, I sat down, And put pen to paper, Or fingers to keys. And tried to write my emotions. But I couldn't, because I don't know how to tell the world What I feel like, When I have no right. I looked from the blood stained tissues, Across my torn body, Into my own eyes, reflected perfectly by the mirror before me. Another tear was p

You Left Me Stronger: Hey there, it's been awhile, do you remember me? I guess you might not, since I wasn't very important to you. You know, I spent so many days thinking about - what I did wrong I questioned if maybe, I was at fault or if I was screwed up. I thought a lot about the things you said... The things that were my fault, my problems. I took them to heart at first, but then I realised you were wrong. I realised that you are selfish and ugly on the inside. On the surface you pretended to care, but like a cancer; You amputate someone the moment you think they've gone bad. You hide from the rigours of life and only emerge l

Blood flows from our wrists, Making our hands turn into fists. We only feel the pain and sorrow, Have we given up hope for a better tomorrow? The rope is hanging from the ceiling, Helping us end that miserable feeling. The pills are scattered across the floor, Maybe we need to swallow just one more? Others might refuse to see the cruelty of life, While others try to end it by the knife. Trying to get out of this cruel dream, Sometimes all we can do is scream. There are others like you out there, You might not yet know where. But they try to overcome it, That's something not all will admit. Every one of us needs a helping hand,

Staring blankly at a white sheet of paper Can truly be an artist’s worst nightmare An artist’s duty as its shaper Their thoughts up in the clouds somewhere Looking for bits of inspiration Their eyes searching the skies Nothing can break their concentration Nothing can blow out the passion in their eyes Being an artist does not always mean you are skilled You do not need to be Picasso or Bach It means you want to see your dream fulfilled And that you will never give in to an art block

She always fell for boys who needed saving. Giving them kisses in the dark to numb their headache from drinking too much and yet not enough to kill lust. She was always adored by boys, who, if given the chance, would rebuild the world for her. But she wanted to be the heroine and refused to see she needed saving, too.

Yes, roses are red 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 These words, 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, So yes, 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 me

Slide the blade across your wrist. Again. Again. Again. Stop. "Doesn't it hurt?" I can't feel anything. "A little." Punch your own stomach. Harder. Harder. Does it hurt yet? Yes. Keep going. "Why do you do that?" The pain makes me feel alive. "I don't know." Stare. Cry. Scream. Stop. Keep staring. "What's wrong with you?" I'm dead inside. "Nothing." "Emotional freak." I'm just depressed. "Sorry." Stare at your arms. Your stomach. Your waist. Your thighs. "What are you doing?" I'm ugly. "Never mind." "Attention seeker." I just have low self esteem. "I'm sorry." Cuts. Scars. Tears. Emotions. "Emo." "Scene girl." "Psycho." I'm just human

You watch him from a distance You love to see him smile You wish one day he might be yours If only for a while You wish that you could tell him To have the strength to say, "I love you and I wish that you Could feel the same one day!" Your heart beats as he comes towards you Only to walk on by You try to tell yourself you don't love him Try to believe your lie… You wish, you dream, you hope, you pray That you could be together Maybe if you could make him see That you two could last forever.....

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.

Sit down for a second, Because I want to tell you something. I want to tell you and everybody else that walked over me. That today, I have become something! Just walk with me for a second, I want to show you something. You remember this; is it all falling into place? Cause this is where you shut me down. Now I didn't know what I was supposed to do; Excuse me for being a loser, right? I had to work up a lot of courage to ask you out. But you didn't even look at anything beneath the surface. So of course, you just flipped me off and walked away. Thank you. Because of you I went to the gym every single day. Because of you I started lifting

Overcome your Writer's Block: If you want to deal with writer's block the plan is simple, tickty-tock Give in to madness, go insane search for words in the midst of rain When you hit the wall on its painted face with your fingers and knees you'll find a trace The secret passage that will lead you through or perhaps you might be eaten by a grue... Oh well... Back to the rhymes that I use to explain If you try to go forward it will be in vain So try a new direction, upward or down Left or right maybe Charlie Brown? There are no limits except in your mind Now do a google search and what do you find? A pond of ideas now stagnant a

No one can see the pain that we hide, They're happy for us to keep it inside, Our fear is our own; they don't want to know, Why sould we involve them; why should it show. You live your whole life in confusion and fear, The need to feel something unbearably near, Half of you living, Half of you gone, And inside you know what your doing is wrong. The thing's that can help, the thing's that may heal, Are the flame or the blade and the sting of the steel, The destruction of skin means the death of your soul, But there's nowhere to run when your living alone.

No, depression is not just getting sad. 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? Ignorant people. Just. Like. You.

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

Staring at a blank paper Is an artist's worst nightmare. The artist is the shaper, Their thoughts somewhere up in the air. They are searching for inspiration, Sometimes they are even searching the skies. It takes a lot of concentration, But you can always see the passion burning in their eyes. Being an artist does not always mean you're creative. It just means that you want to create something, And never want to give up.

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