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Literature Text
"How deep is a lake
If it goes on forever?"
You ask me as
We tire swing over
Crater Lake,
Our feet painting the waters
A crisscross of ripples,
Too afraid to let go,
Release our hold and dive
Down
For fear of never resurfacing.
I do not know
And I wish to never
Know
The answer to such questions,
So I keep quiet
And speculate as
You loosen your grip
And fall back,
Letting the depthless
Water
Catch your fall
To find out for
Yourself.
If it goes on forever?"
You ask me as
We tire swing over
Crater Lake,
Our feet painting the waters
A crisscross of ripples,
Too afraid to let go,
Release our hold and dive
Down
Down
Down
For fear of never resurfacing.
I do not know
And I wish to never
Know
The answer to such questions,
So I keep quiet
And speculate as
You loosen your grip
And fall back,
Letting the depthless
Water
Catch your fall
To find out for
Yourself.
Literature
Self Righteous Suicide
Self Righteous Suicide:
We're sleeping,
In a cold world,
That has long denied the light.
We isolate,
Each other,
As we walk alone at night.
We plot,
Unholy vengeance,
As we dream of endless death,
We hate,
Our reflections,
As we choke away our breath.
We sleep,
And suffer,
Tormented by our dreams.
Alone,
And frightened,
None shall hear our screams.
So sick,
So vengeful,
A taste that is sickly sweet...
Let me end,
This life,
For hope I shall not meet...
"Why should we alone cry, when angels deserve to die?"
-Chen Yuan Wen, 24th February 2012
Literature
So, I lied.
I am a poet.
At least,
that's what my
skin tells me when
I bleed.
I'm slowly melting into
bed sheets not worth
lying in twice.
Half sick of shadows,
I think I've lost my mind.
My thoughts are s p i n n i n g
and my bones are shaking.
But I keep repeating re-peating
repeating your name like a mantra.
All I want to do is sleep.
But you see,
I bleed more than red
and there is this ink pen
digging through my skin.
Literature
They Told Us
They Told Us:
They told us we weren't artists,
They said that we're just puttin' words on paper...
They told us we wouldn't make it,
Because language isn't unique...
Ta hell with them all I say,
Because I know tha truth they seek ta hide.
Writers, poets,
We're treated like third-rate artists.
Our hands can't create magical pictures,
We can't create comics ta make people laugh,
Or emotive portraits ta make em cry...
But what they don't see is tha title,
What they don't see is tha description,
They don't even see tha comments or replies!
They look only at themselves,
And at tha talent they seem ta proclaim.
It's like starin' at
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Comments13
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SO good. I want to just sit here and read it over and over!