And maybe in time,
Even I'll believe the lie.
So let's sweep it aside
And lock it deep inside,
And, let them belie-
Ve the pretended 'alright.'
ReflectingSo, when did we become strangers,
did you forget my face?
Do you know-
of course you don't, but do you know-
that I miss you,
I remember the fun times,
stupidity of our days together,
I still think of you
and the family;
and even that silly little crush
did you forget?
do you hide it away like a forgotten
because, on the inside,
you're too ashamed to admit,
you're not who you wanted
ObligationsWhat are these trinkets to me?
Obligations held to
Obligations tied in the mire
of a past quickly fading,
Why should I subject myself
To your tedious obligations,
To your restrictions,
in weighted shackles?
So I say,
What are these obligations to me,
Except things to be misplaced,
And gather the Dust of Bitterness?
I say they're ties,
and that I'm going to cut them away.
Why should I submit myself to
when you rejected my Love?
Cotton candy skiesAnd you know the pain:
You see it
can feel it,
Written over every orifice of the world,
Let it eat away at your soul as you watch
Your vapidly sentient
Capacity for action
Eroding away with every cell
This virus infects.
So you run,
Turn to apathy
And sit looking at the
Cotton candy clouds
A midst a burning backdrop,
And you hide this pain,
Like it doesn't exist--
Not in you
nor the world
nor in the minds of people
that you can see living it every
You run to the emptiness of pleciboed
Living on the internet,
Indulging in fantasy and pretend,
Living as if
still a child in Wonderland,
Forgetting you need to breathe air.
Yes you sit before a burning
Backdrop, a prelude to the end
of cotton candy skies,
And repress the existence
of this reality in-leu of
of the semblance of
Can I [part 1]Can I love you?
Can we take it back
in the dead of night-
To the way you'd
Can we take it back-
back to the iridescence that shown
in our eyes as we
lay back in the dark,
Can I love you?
Can I listen again,
To that mellifluous tone
That escapes your lips when you speak?
Can we rewind to when
I meant something to you-
when you weren't just pretending,
when I wasn't
just there for your personal
Can I love the way you used me-
-how the morning light was like
the lock to a treasure chest,
and the treasure it contained
Like just one more instrument
To be finley played-
the smiles we had glanced
across the table at dinner,
speaking our language,
our hushed tones igniting
quirked eyebrows from the others
and our own hard-silenced snickers.
Can I love you,
in this dark feeling,
lying here drowning in the quick-sand
while I try to fall asleep,
Can I love you,
when the scorched sun br
This autogenous iniquity-
the cacophony of sin
It bites and
Your antiquated conduct
shall find no place
In this world,
No rest inside these bounds.
Go on then,
Cry your heart to pieces-
and lacerate your soul.
Soft, to the degree of
Incising upon that inner you,
That softness with which
Your mortal soul now burns,
Dirtied with that softness,
Tender-hearted pain of empathy,
soft and hush
As it reverberates through your
As you feel your failings
each claiming a piece of you
with more rapidity than
Let the tears come-
so soft so soft-
and burn an antiquated brand,
deep into your soul.
As the empathetic scars
Breed lace into your heart.
For whatever has been done-
no man controls the past so let it
Now let it lie,
Be it burning with the
Assignment TwoA suitable grad-gift.
Wrapped in expected 'congrats!' tissue
paper, extended in love from the hands of a friend.
But, it isn't just a picture frame-
Special, because the hand-spun-silk, woven-cotton-soft
In brilliant crimson holds the pictures
You, and me, your smile so ambiguous,
Like the Cheshire's grin.
assignment oneLove is a hurricane,
inside your irises.
An acrid storm,
Exploding within your eyes.
Love is soft
even. Malliable when in
a sculptor's hands,
Such as your own.
So like the shifting water:
Frozen to solid,
Melted to liquid,
Or released as vapor.
Love is an idea,
Transparency that transgresses
The BeachThe beach is cold and stings
As dainty little feet walk across the sands,
That time has been unable to mar.
The sun is just a glow over the
Mist hangs in the air, footprints are left in the sand.
Nothing has changed.
The world could be thrown into darkness,
Buildings could crumble, people could die,
Or a job could be lost,
Or a house need repainting. It could be
A family argument, and tension among friends.
It could be the shadow in the doorway, a knife in it's hand,
Haunting your dreams again.
But the sands on the beach would still be unmarred by the
Cruel hands of time.
His love in you would be a butterfly of hope,
As the world was ending. His embrace
Would be a comfort in the midst of the dead.
The lost job will roll off his shoulders,
As he cracks a joke to make you laugh, because,
He lives for your laugh.
And he'd make a game, of the trivial task of house
Work, so that even though you both hated it,
It would be time you'd be together.
The family argument he would
The Adjustment BeauroI doubt you'll ever understand,
Just how worthless,
You make me feel.
You leave me with,
After each segment ends.
Maybe it's your nature,
Maybe the 'Adjustment
Beauro' just decided
We shouldn't be a we,
But you'll never understand
One way or another.
So I guess
I'll let you rip me apart.
I'm not good for anything else.
Who will perform the autopsy?There is a forest painted in
scorching red, fire blooming
beneath its dirt-caked skin,
smoke skimming leaves
as plumes of flame snicker
behind the tail of a doe.
Coals coating tree-trunks,
hungry for life, it devours
the same way they ravaged her
when she said 'no'.
Bright eyes morph into murkiness
as the inferno marches.
When rust washed down
her throat, she did not scream,
only begged for them to stop.
Beneath the ash,
they find her body.
RecipeYou said you like your girls
a little psychotic
with a dash of instability,
so I showed you my recipe
with shaky, bloody hands.
Clothes were discarded
and you broke my rib cage open
and shoved a needle full of cyanide
i n m y l u n g s.
(Your insanity was my life support
and I lived off of your insidious words.)
And just as I made friends
with the Grim Reaper,
you abandoned me
and said I was too fucked up for you.
How ironic is it
that my creator
was terrified of me?
He said he liked his girls
a little morbid
with a dash of insanity
so I cut my chest open
and showed him my p o i s o n - f i l l e d l u n g s.
He grabbed my barely-beating heart,
caressed my sunken cheeks
and said, "This is all I care about."
Black EyeThe sense of dread you instill with your look
makes millions quake as if the whole Earth shook.
The world is well aware of the moves you make
But it’s impossible to predict the form it’ll take.
Their sharpest of scholars can’t cleave your disguise,
but I see the darkness that is haloed in your eyes.
Like an inbound disaster you deliver despair
when upon the land you fixate your stare.
Your visage is venom; there’s no point in hoping
that the people can rest with your black eyes open.
With fear as your feed, your appetite amplifies,
and I see the darkness that is haloed in your eyes.
Your timeline, your being, is immersed in obscurity
‘cuz a black eye needs no light to see.
It’s only when you surface to prowl for prey
those opaque orbs emerge to blot out the day.
I see the darkness that is haloed in your eyes;
the shadowed glare that hides your lies.
I sense the sickness plastered oln your face
and know how it spreads with its fetid embrace.
Wasted FleshFlesh, flesh,
Such wasted flesh...
This able-bodied meat.
Defiled by drugs and impurities.
A mind born with clarity,
Yet so blatantly abused.
No harm did you suffer;
Other than harm self inflicted.
Disregarding the hopeless gazes,
Of those who were born without.
No good, no good;
This I cannot abide...
I shall take this flesh from you,
And it shall be tended and made anew.
A gift to those who are deserving,
Of the very gifts you cast aside...
Now then, my dear,
Do stop your screaming.
It will only be painful,
Until your heart stops beating.
- Word of Chen, 1/6/2016
Is It Love?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?
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
I think of youAs suns set afar and mountains flame
And eagles, turning, turn to fire
Ash cold, alone I lie
And think of you.
Things they don't tell you.Thngs they don’t tell you about losing your grandfather on a Tuesday night:
When you wake the next morning, you still
need to get out of bed in time for work, you still
have to shower, dress yourself, eat breakfast, brush
your teeth and hair;
and when your mother calls
to check in, you have to comfort her because she lost
her dad last night;
and when you call your grandmother
your voice cannot waver lest you upset her, because
she lost a man she's known for seventy years and even
though she would never hold it against you, you still
feel obligated not to cry;
and when you sit down
to do your job, you will have to do it with all your heart
because if you can
an atheist's prayerdear god,
i planted no tulips in autumn
and no tulips came in spring.
how silly of me, then
to mourn the empty garden,
to long for fields of amsterdam,
to kneel at night in cold dirt,
i’ve learned there is
a certain ache in lacking
a thing never had, that small itch
whose relief is two seasons past –
so god, if you can hear me,
know that i am homesick
whose name, like yours, i know
but whose flowers i cannot see.