[x]

Complexities"Complexities"

What kind of father throws his own son
Out into the unknown to wander alone?
A father who if he didn't think his son could make it
Would not have sent him out there to roam

What kind of daughter hides secrets
From the kindness of her mother's care?
The kind who wants to protect her mother
And instead turns to God for prayer

What kind of son walks around
Concealing drugs in his backpack?
A son who doesn't want to see
His father resorting to that

What kind of annoying brother
Gives his sister's boyfriend a hard time?
One who doesn't want to see her hurt
Because love can sometimes blind

What kind of best friend hurts you
Or

Missing Pieces.I am a missing piece. Something that someone needs.
But at the same time, I feel so incomplete.
I’ve wandered way too far, wondered for far too long
Am I a missing piece? Or a piece that won’t belong?

Is it possible I’m damaged and not missing at all?
That I’m just as dysfunctional as everybody else?
Pretending to be perfect never softened a single fall.
But neither did admitting that you’re broken and flawed.

A broken missing piece. Is that all I’m meant to be?
There is no master plan that includes the likes of me.
Being all alone, it’s a hurt that will not cease.
A hundred thousand years from now

Stay Young"Stay Young"

Remember when the only thing to do in the morning
Was lay in bed and watch cartoons?
Nothing else then seemed important
And we didn't get out of bed until noon.

Remember when after school every day
We would play tag in the park?
We couldn't be told what to say
And we'd run around like fools until dark

But now that we've become older
Making transitions to new frames of mind
Life is weighing down like boulders
And things suddenly aren't as fine

We can't help but think; we can't help but worry
Some say life will just begin
But it seems no matter how fast we hurry
We're in a race we just can't win

We're in a tunnel that has no l

You're Not?You're anorexic if you're thin
You're not? Then you're obese.

If you're different, you're insane
You're not? Then you're a fake.

If you're happy, you're hiding something.
You're not? You must be emo.

If you're dating, you're a slut.
You're not? You must have no friends.

If you're popular, you're a jerk.
You're not? You're a nobody.

If you're quiet, you must be disabled.
You're not? You obnoxious freak.

If you're you, you're wrong.
You're not?
Then you must be perfect.

Tired, Exhausted, DrainedTired, Exhausted, Drained:

I am bloody exhausted! Drained to the core of my soul.

I wake up every morning with bags; burning ever deeper into my eyes.

Sunken masses of flesh, reminding me that the dreamscape -

One in which I sought refuge; is now buried where it lies.

Yet still I force myself to trudge through this wilderness.

Forever caught in a moon drenched, delusory twilight.

An endless cycle of failure and renewed hope;

Giving rise to the very stubbornness that defines me.

-Chen Yuan Wen, 5th February 2013

Hall Of Mirrors"Hall Of Mirrors"

I was once thrown into a hall of mirrors
Surrounding me on every side
I was forced to look deep into my soul
For I had not a place to hide

Every mirror reflected someone different
Some versions were fat or thin
Each version had different color eyes
But none revealed the person within

Some versions were short or tall
Some had me in a tie and suit
Some had me in a summertime shirt
But none revealed the person I knew

Every mirror showed different contrast
And different objects floating in space
Some reflections were lighter than others
But none helped reflect my own face

So finally down on hands and knees
I asked desperat

R.I.P WordsDo you know what it feels like?
To feel something, but...
be unable to express what it is;
to be silent;
to fight it alone.

I know how much it hurts,
but I don't know how to show it.
Poetry used to be my refuge,
a place where I could be alone -
express all my emotions,
without being judged.

I'm losing it.
I can't connect to poetry.
Everything sounds so stupid...
Everything I write sounds stupid.
I have to erase all my feelings,
because they don't sound right.

The words aren't real.
They don't show what I feel
And maybe this will be the last.
Maybe I'm gone:
lost of all emotions.
I'm truly alone...
I used to have poetry.

Now I have not

BelovedBeloved:

Perfectly pleasant
With a bright radiant smile
If only for me...

-Chen Yuan Wen, 4th January 2013

The Fog"The Fog"

Every one of us has fog in our lives
Some more than others; some of us choke
And no matter the place where we reside
We're always gasping and breathing in smoke

This fog develops and envelops us whole
Blinding our very sense of direction
We often can't see which way to go
So we hide behind our fog's objections

This air becomes too thick to breathe
From the very moment of our youth
And often hidden below and beneath
Is the very essence of elusive truth

But we can not see all the ideals
Walking around lost in a cloudy haze
So we blindly guess at what is real
Hoping that we have found the way

But opaque roads are rocky and littere

PulsateWhat is a heartbeat,
without the heart?
What is a dream,
without the conscience?
What is a word,
without the letters?
What is a hope,
without the faith?
What is a soul,
without the self?
What is a kiss,
without the love?

What am I,
without you?

We Are/You Aren'tWe are the unwanted, the broken
The ones you forgot about.
So don't be too surprised when we
Start to scream and shout.

We are the living, the dying
The ones you all put down.
But you'll know who we are when we
Run this goddamn town.

We are the corpses, the maggots
The ones you all despise.
But you'll be the ones scared when we
Expose all your lies.

We are the hunted, the lost
The ones you all spurn.
But you'll cry for our help when we
Leave you all to burn.

We are the losers, the winners
The ones that you deny.
But you'll be the ones damned when we
Hear the angels cry.

Avoid Drama"Avoid Drama"

How dare you spread such rumors
How dare you say such lies
How can I be pregnant?
I'm not a girl; I'm a guy!

Why would you think that?
Why would you fib
About people you don't know
Or things you never did?

He broke up with her
She cheated on him
Please don't get me involved
I don't know where to begin

So what if you never
Got asked out to the prom?
It only lasts one night
Then life will carry on

Every week there's someone
Fighting with a friend
Who hates who this week?
Please let this drama end

Because I'll never understand
Why people have to judge
Adding insult to injury
To hearts that never budge

What

You Can Be A Poet“You Can Be A Poet”

I guarantee everyone is a poet
But I am willing to bet not many know it
Forming a poem is a simple task
Just string words on paper that seem to mask
Your hidden feelings on a certain subject
Or how you wish this world could be perfect

Not all poems have to be deep in meaning
And indeed even the simplest poems can be quite deceiving
This poem for example exists
Without any misdirection or twists
The focus of this poem is to provide
A helpful little guide
On how to write the absolute best
And bring out the skills everyone does possess

Poems work to magnificent avail
If one decides to retell a tale
Poems allow

The PoetThe Poet:

He smiles as he sees her sleeping
& gently covers her with a blanket.
He goes to the window and looks out
watching snow fall, ever so slowly...

He sees people in the streets,
Chatting, walking. Some happy,
Others sad. Hearts beating,
Hearts broken; some warm, some cold.

He looks back at her, as she stirs in bed.
A yawn from her, brings another smile to him:
"How cute," he chuckles as he strokes her head.
He runs his fingers through her hair and is content.

Yet, even if he is happy here, again -
He is drawn to that window and finds himself
Staring out at the street and watching;
Marveling at the disparity and wonderin

Hold On"Hold On"

Come on, kid
Please don't disappear
We have a better place for you
That's far away from here

You have to get better
We always wanted a son
Let the medicine run it's course
This battle is not yet won

I know you're not breathing
The doctors told me why
They told me you're not leaving
And maybe you could die

There are plenty who love you
Waiting at our home
Mommy fixed your crib
This bed is not a throne

This is the third time I've been
In a hospital this year
The others didn't go well
I lost many who were dear

I ran away to find myself
Because I was once lost
I needed to see what was important
Paths were so criss-crossed

But I'v

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More from ~EvilpixieA

A Villain's SidekickBy the very definition of my being, I hate you.
I was created by the bad guys, you see. A superhuman to combat the superhuman. Because he was smart enough, but not strong enough to destroy you. I am a weapon. Engineered for destruction.
I wish it were as simple as a reprogram. Then I could forget you, forget my duty, and fly for the fun of it, perhaps even do some good. But when I see your face, so like mine, I can't help but want to see it dead. I am the product of a world of superheros. I am the first in a superpower arms race.
My father, he is the one who you need to fix, because he is human enough that it might work. Maybe then he'll see no need to keep a weapon. And I can run for the fun of it, jump for the fun of it, fly, and do just a little bit of good.
But in the meantime, please understand, I can not help but hate you.

She Asked HerSpelled out in cut newspaper.
'No'.

Legal Sex Worker is Happy."Too damaged to understand," says society.

Define Me VillainThe pair were delivered in a cargo box. Industrial steel coiled around them and an extra band around knees and ankles, locking the two upright, back to back. A drip line plugged into each; long needles delved deep between spinal blocks of bone. Bags taped to ceiling. A folded note had been wedged between them.
'I can't decide.' Written in cut out segments of newspaper.
Terry had decided. A long time ago. He knew which one was villain, which hero. But he did his duty: moved them inside, set up studio lights and hoisted a camera onto bulky tripod. Lit a cigarette and sucked a guilty drag as he waited for them to wake. Started recording as the first slowly lifted her head and rolled metallic gaze towards him.
"Terry Williams," she rasped, her voice the warped tones of computer generated sound. "I thought you were fired."
"I was."
The second frowned, blinked and started awake. Orange hair frayed and wild, face spotted with freckles and burns, a fullness of lip spoke of forgo

Away from NeverNeverLandMoney is dirty. Leaves invisible yuck on a person; stains fingers, smears over skin and catches under nails. Festers. And then hands turn into pincers to take and eyes small greedy and black. Skin hardens to bounce back ugly words and back curves under weight of things. Lobsters, fat and red.
Marriage is scrubbed. Clean and pretend. Perfect white dresses and kisses put and planted. Brides march and grooms promise so hard. Military of gowns with bow tie generals. An army of high heels and flowers landed in laps. Marriage spreads. Infects. Zombiefying disease. Shuffle, I do, brains.
Driving is fickle. Slide into each other, through each other. Blood and bits go with them. People cry over tombs and insurance papers. Or nothing. Home again, uneventful day. Locked behind wheel, over tarmac, lights suspended like vultures above. Danger, danger. Promise of convenience. Thrill. Like riding a shark.
Work is uniformed. Slotted, easy, organized files. Tags meaning le

Just Like We Were a Thousand Years AgoWe’re dying.
More than two thirds of the population, coughing, writhing and swelling. Black knobs squeeze bloody under chin, arm and thigh. Foam bubbles at mouth. Most aren’t found until their eyes pop from the pressure and ants pick pieces of blue white skin. Where whole towns succumb, they are never found at all.
It’s the bubonic plague. Black Death. Come again. Just like it did a thousand years ago.
But it’s different now, indestructible, and white coats produce a new needle every week. Tommy got jabbed but did him no good. After that we kept ourselves back from the white coats and their followers. Cause they can’t find the cure.
Just like they couldn’t a thousand years ago.
Instead we walk. Outrun the wave. Never speak to anyone we don’t know. Keep our faces covered and avoid all towns, cities, villages, homes. But not alone. Others march. Leave a place at the first whisper of death. Never look back. Don’t let anyone near. Out

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Dear Writer

by ~EvilpixieA, Feb 18, 2013, 10:34:51 PM
Literature / Prose / Non-Fiction / Letters

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 am subject to no one person. Out there I am bound to only black on white. Words on a page. Words that can lay seeds within a million minds. Out there I am a story capable of growing, moving, and stealing the dreams of anyone who learns of me…

I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. I hate your lack of dedication, your flashes of crumbling inspiration, and your slow blotchy writing style. I despise my entrapment within your small trembling mind, so prone to distraction; and scowl down at those other ideas all vying for the attention you should be showing me.

I don’t like you. But I need you.

So, creator, I ask you yet again; publish me, set me free, and if you can somehow will your poor, misshapen, abilities into managing that then perhaps I will rethink my opinion of you.

But don’t hold your breath.

~ The Idea

Dear Writerby ~EvilpixieA

Literature / Prose / Non-Fiction / Letters

I sat down to write, fiddled around with a few play on words, scribbled up some rough story drafts, and edited a short story. Then, unbidden, as I was about to pack up this... happened.

It may be poorly written, have the structure of a house built my malicious apes, and steeped in improper grammar. But, all the same, I don't think it is something I should ideally delete either. In fact, after getting over my original surprise at having written such a thing clearly addressed to myself, I find I quite like it.

In fact, I feel like it was just what I needed.

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~katcho May 11, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

wonderful

I love it

thank you.

=Emberguard Apr 16, 2013 General Artist

brilliant! I love it

It kinda reminds me of all those jokes where someone can't think of what to write/draw so they write about an artisst that can't think of what to write/draw, except this one that you've done has been done in a way I've never seen before and from a view that's so different from the usual that it thoroughly entertains me while reading it.

Well done

~McKinleyWiens Apr 9, 2013 Student Writer

Howdy!
My name is McKinley Wiens, and I am starting up a blog focused on literature and such! I was wondering if I could have your permission to link this post to my blog, possibly accompanied by a comment or two by you? If so, please respond and I'll give you a couple questions I'd love you to answer about the piece for my blog post! If not, that's kool

~EvilpixieA Apr 10, 2013 Student Writer

Sure. Nothing bad can come from a little extra exposure. Fire away (the questions)!

~McKinleyWiens Apr 11, 2013 Student Writer

Thank ya very kindly! My blog is focused around how literature is related to our lives, and emotions, so...

1. What inspired you to write the piece?
2. What does the piece mean to you?
3. How has literature as a whole, or literature communities on sites such as DevArt, affected your life?
4. Favorite novel? and why?
5. Anything else you feel is relevant, and would like to have included in the post!

~EvilpixieA Apr 12, 2013 Student Writer

1. There was no inspiration. I was not inspired to write this piece. It just... happened one night before I snapped shut my laptop after a few hours munching out a tricky paragraph. Read into that what you will.

2. This piece represents a community of writers and artists. I know that sounds strange but I wrote this in such a rush, in such a short blurred moment, that I have come to know it after its creation as the most popular thing I have ever posted on DeviantArt. I believed it destined to sink to the bottom of a murky green gallery. Instead... it seems to have ridden an overnight rip tide.

And through it I have found thousands of inspired creators all battling to let their ideas out just as I am. What does it mean to me? It means them, our identical struggles, and the online community we are apart of.

3. The pursuit, creation, and experience of stories is one of my few true passions. Perhaps in the only one.

Literature is merely a medium in which to tell a story. In the same way a book is just ink and paper, or a word a collection of symbols, literature isn't my passion. It's what literature can do, the stories it can tell, which inspire and shape my life; which have driven me to throw myself into such a life.

4. Currently it is 'World War Z' by Max Brooks. Never have I come across such a brilliantly constructed, formatted, or rustically told scare story since Orson Welles historic radio broad cast 'War of the Worlds'.

It's terrifyingly plausible, realistically raw, and it sticks with you for a long time after putting it down. Brilliant.

5. 'Dear Writer' is a short strange thing that I have come to adore not just because of its form and style but because it has proved to be a doorway to a lot of new writers and has perhaps helped a lot of writers.

I still don't know if its good, bad, or the dreaded 'meh' but I am glad I didn't delete it that night before closing my laptop.

Okay, I hope you find what you want in the thick of all that. Thanks.