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I wondered if you could hear my heart in your sleep, Recognize the smell of my skin in your dreams, Touch my lips when you wake up, And whisper in my ears while I sleep. I pondered all that as you fell asleep to my heartbeat, Breathing softly on my chest with one of your hands still feeling me. And when I wake up it was your lips, Or maybe it's all just a dream. But when I declared "I love you", I could feel your lips at my ear, Whispering the sweet melody, Of everything I ever wanted to hear.

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

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

These Words Aren't Pretty: My verses are ugly and I admit to the fact I can't use pretty language when I'm working with rap Because the things that I write, are just the things that I feel I ain't an Edgar Allan Poe or a Danielle Steel And I'll be honest with you, I've got an envy inside Because some poets got a flow that's as smooth as the tide I read some stuff that they write, it's just so dope I ignite Burning shame and my anger at the beautiful sight And like birds of a feather, they're flocking together These poets are the Gods and I'm nailed by the weather But as the rain pours down, lightning resound; I try to write pretty

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

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.

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

No poetry was written, No fairytales were read. As if it was forbidden, By the monsters in her head. And all they thought was silly, Was quickly thrown away. By a girl who had to grow up, By a girl who couldn't play. All her dreams and fantasies, All her fears and hopes. Thrown in a bag of garbage, Balloons and skipping ropes. The teddybears and puzzles, All had to retreat. For new puzzles in her head, She never would complete. No poetry was written, No fairytales were told. Her eyes spoke of a sad tale, Her hands were always cold. She thought of no white horses, For she was no princess. Her life was about papers,

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.

I am trying to cover my sadness with words. Tape them against my scars & wear them like worthy paper cuts.  My tears are alcohol swabs, burning & cleansing wounds of my own making. Sometimes, I wish I could hide behind them forever. But not even this journeyed flesh can stand castle strong against speechless ink stains. I know the code.  This body does not deserve a warriors death.  & poetry, you're a monster— a creative monster, but evil nonetheless. I wish to string you into knots, force feed you down the throats of others.  De-format you & leave you empty; freeversed- to hang loosely along the heartstrings of strangers

"I'm fine" is a dirty lie. The truth is that I want to die. "I'm tired" is not even done. It really means "I'm tired of being no one" "I'm better" is but a curse. The truth is that I've never been worse "I'm just cold" is what I say so my sleeves can hide my scars away. "I already ate" is said with a frown. I starve to see the numbers on the scale go down. "I'm okay" is probably the worst. It really means I'm about to burst. All these things are lies to me. But you take this as the truth because what else would I be?

You told me once you would break my stars, tear them from the sky and devour them s l o w l y. I neglected to tell you they all had their own feelings and your bruises form my own constellation in the quiet valleys of my firefly skin. I am the milky way. And you, my sweet- You are nothing more than a dead star with a pretty name.

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

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

I hate that you're my every thought That I wake with you on my mind And fall asleep To images of your smile I hate that I adore you so With gorgeous eyes And sweet lips I long to taste I hate the way you make me feel Like I need you to survive As if breathing without you Is excruciating I hate that I yearn for you I hunger for your touch Every moment Of every day I hate the way I love you With every beat Of my wretched heart That loving you keeps me alive Yet keeps me alone

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

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

I'm not the marrying kind.
 I have stones in my hair instead of flowers, And a rosebush of thorns is more poignant to me.

 I'm not the marrying kind.
 My words aren't pretty or wise, And I can't sing about anything but a broken heart. 

I'm not the marrying kind.
 I am the sort of damaged you see in an old recorder, And the kind of old in an instrument that breaks into a billion pieces at a touch.

 I'm not the marrying kind.
 Neither neat, nor tidy, nor correct in my behavior, And yes, I did in fact tell you to fuck yourself.

 I'm not the marrying kind.R

Dear Stars, I have a bone to pick with you. You see, when I was six, I called myself the nowhere girl... and I coloured myself a soulmate. I made him on crumpled sheets, with broken pieces of crayon, on a playground that was too busy wondering whether growing up entailed stealing their mother's cigarettes and their father's dirty magazines (I suppose I was already wise enough to know that growing up meant choosing one of the many ways of breaking yourself in two.) I hope you remember him, stars...he was important to me (My best friend threw that drawing away on my seventh birthday and told me that someone like me was not supposed to have su

Poetry, it’s like cultivating a greenhouse with broken fingers. -dp

I am. I am the person who lives. I am the person who loves. I am the girl who cries to sleep at night, wishing I could be prettier. I am the boy who is trying to live up to everyone else's expectations other than my own. I am the invisible who linger in the hallways. I am the person who bullies to feel better. I am the parent who gave up after my child went to jail. I am the daughter who works at fifteen because my parents can't. I am the person who is bullied for being different. I am the person who lives because I don't know what happens after death. I am the woman who is hit on every day because of my looks, making them more of

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

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