Inspirational Plagiarism

Imagine. Your world. Delivered.  Ideas for life.

Now that’s progressive. Thousands of possibilities. Get yours.

That was easy. Do more. Impossible is nothing.

Sense and Simplicity. Once you pop, you can’t stop.

Have it your way. Because I’m worth it. I’m loving it.

Connecting people. Born to play. Imagination at work.

Taking you forward. Zoom Zoom. He keeps going and going and going.

Have a break. Just do it. Taste the rainbow.

Life’s good. Finger lickin’ good. So good.

-Wren

Note: I challenge you to identify all the companies/brands of slogans used in this poem :)

Hooded Boy

Hooded Boy

He's being followed in the shadows
He's certain. He's uncertain why.
His girlfriend tells him to run,
His steps become slightly faster,
Neither a sprint nor jog.
A man after all, he doesn't fear
The shadows in a free country.
Unarmed and unsuspicious,
He walks on the sidewalk.
In his pocket a Skittles bag,
No guns, no drugs, no knives.

He was just walking home.
He only returned in a body bag
With a bullet to the back.
White shooter to a victim, black.

How do you even make sense
Of a vigilante, self-appointed.
Going hunting on a neighbourhood
Armed against unarmed people,
With some sort of deluded
Divine license to shoot and kill?
Given the story vice versa,
A black man shooting a white,
For "self-defense" unprovoked,
Would make no headlines, but
Certainly some prison lines.
How is it that there is not even,
Not even an arrest and charges?


He was just walking home.
He only returned in a body bag
With a bullet to the back.
Justice for Trayvon is in lack.

Wren

Life of a Penny

Life of a Penny

On the ground.
Hidden behind the couch.
Never looked on.
Given but never loved.
Hundred together matches one loon.
Ten thousand equals one paper.

Tossed at the homeless.
An afterthought.
Worth less than itself.
Queen on my face,
A leaf on the back,
Still on the sidewalk.
Waiting to be picked up.

-Wren

Tribolium confusum

Tribolium confusum

On my back, head to sky
Limbs flounder to grasp the cloud
A drowning man, reaching for root or rye
Silent as a flea, I was loud
In my head, covered in powdery shroud.

I am the confused one. Tribolium
confusum. Named for slapstick comedy
Value. When I flip, I don't get up.
Trip on flat ground, a daily tragedy
Life of a Bohemian rhapsody.

Now amongst trials and tribulations,
I trip again. Some six score troll
Plays a game like God on nations
In the Middle. I am not in control
group, in tests of heat and acid, I roll.

Through inferno and caustic baths,
Haunted lectures and daunting exams,
Unjust judges' de-grading wraths,
I will persist. I will be no sham
Immortal from nukes of university exams,
Darwinian survivor, Tribolium confusum.

-Wren

Note: A Tribolium confusum is a flour beetle that is flightless, defenseless, and seemingly clueless. It likes to flip itself on its back a lot, and most of the time, it takes them a long time to get back upright. However, these guys are prolific around the world's grain silo and can survive high radiation. The confused flour beetle is a true inspirational creature, and a silly one to boot. 

Rift

Rift

There always seems to be a time in which everything is cramped; deadlines everywhere; the crunch time to get everything done; the mind overwhelmed with thoughts; like being in an elevator with the max capacity so much that the elevator wobbles uncomfortably when a person sneezes; or like being on a Japanese subway during rush hours; or a PNE line for the rollercoaster that weaves in backandforthandbackandforthandbackandforth.

Take

A

Breather

And


Blink


And


Think.


We'll get through this.
And look back at this.
And see how time passed
So. So. Quick and fast
Like jumping over a rift.

Step.

Step.

Leap.






Drop.

Made the landing.

Wren

Monday Morn

Monday Morn


Every muscle aches
A brain has no clue
What it dream'd 
Seven seconds ago.


Fourth time snoozed pressed
Half open eyelids
Intermittently stare
At a vacant ceiling.


Short black out
Fifth alarm awakes
With a few great sighs
I begin another five days.

Wren

Note: You know what I mean. I hope.

Tabasco

Tabasco

A beautiful rouge elixir that sears
Evolve flat aroma and grey flavours
Into red festival of spice-sours
In dark chasm of mouth, firework flowers
Como carnaval mucho picantes.  


Thorns to the roses and salt to the seas.
Moon to the night and honey to the bees.
Sugar to the yeasts and blood to the fleas.
Likewise, a pizza of all toppings needs
Tabasco, the amateur gourmand's key.

Wren

Note: This was a trial on an object poetry in simple pentameter rhyming scheme. Hope it spices up your day and feel the Tabasco in your mouth as you read. :)

The Song For The Muse

The Song For The Muse

I write a song for you, an illusion fading into the mist.
The glimmer in the sun, blazing up my day,
Firing up my heart, as though it's been kissed,
Blanching up my soul, making white of gray.
In truth I expected no turns or twist,
Straightforward I chased you into the mist.

Left and south I sought and looked.
Blinding fog could not fetter or bind
My yearning to see you, in full pursuit
Hands reaching in white air, I find
Nothing but traces of my muse, all moot.
I hear alluring siren echoes of your lute
But I lose you, though I looked and looked.
A blind and mute, I seek for the beaut.

The sun broke through the lowland cloud.
Westward wind swept the ethereal world.
In the vast plain, only nothingness remained.
There I stood alone, emptied, and drained.
She was gone, gone, gone forevermore
Like the mystic mist, into myth and lore.
In remembrance of you, I compose for you
A song of farewell and love that was true.

Wren

Rhythm Fools

Rhythm Fools


Beats to six-four, ba-thump;
Walk and Clap, Clap and Walk;
Snap and Boing, Snap and Boing;
Turn and Tap, Tap, Tap, Thump;
Walk and Step, Swap and Go.


Hands on Laps, Rhythm Flows.
Shoes on Earths, Pavement Clinkz.
Eyes on Us, Beat Unslows.
Drums and Feets Evergoes.
On we go, Fools, Rhythm still Flows.


Tap, Thunk, Clank, and Paak-Chack,
Ting, Blonk, Clunk, and Tap-Snap;
Cycle on, Humantronome;
Sun to Sea, We still Flow.
Happy Fools, Rhythm ne'er Slows.

Wren

*Note: A reminescent older work of mine when a couple of my friends and I had so much fun, just being silly and child-like. Though we grow up, we should never forget our inner innocent hearts. 

The World Is Hell

The World Is Hell

A child cries loudly
As his tears drizzle
The tyrant patriarch
Chastises him over
His hamartia tragica
In grades and numbers
To dictator nothing
Seems ever enough
It seems. Boy believes
In that moment of spite
The world is hell.

A child cries inside
Of his vena cava;
Blood rushes through
His soul, a tainted
Heavy metal wand
Fit snug in the unfit
Immature arms
With the tiny twitch
Of his digits, he creates
Death of a dictator.
His soul burn and born,
As a soldier at nine.
The world is hell.

Enraged roars echo
Into the concrete wilderness.
Drums of warfare
Sound against avarice,
The great natural sin
Of human nature.
These drummers
Exorcise earthly evils
In the parks near
The Wall Streets.
Driving out the demons
Named money-lovers.
Hypocritus laughs in death
As sinners of sloth
Preach justice while jobless
And high off plants
And somehow believe
The world is hell.

Subdued voices squeak
Into no grumbles
But those of guts
A facade forevermore
Must be vaulted
To maintain some foreigner's
Misbeliefs. Choreographed
Lifestyle of soy paste and
Lack of rice and too much lice.
Smile is a mile closer to insanity
Or gulag, depending on who sees
Your lips twitch at the great patriot's
Funeral march. Your friends
Are traitors for bread.
Some call them traders.
The TV with one channel
Proclaims everything is glory
In the land of North Korea,
The best nation, supposedly.
Except for ninety nine percent.
The world is hell.

The printer suicides
In midst of night.
Day before the due;
Deadline; submission date.
No ink to bleed for my
Final draft. I think
The world is hell.

There must be two hells:
One for the ones with
A dollar in pocket.
Consisting of inconvenience,
Meaningless tragedies,
Heartbreaks and annoyances.
I. E. No Facebook.
The second hell is below the first.
For those unlucky to have
Not won life lottery
Of being born into a wrong nationality.
They need no worse hell.
Their world is hell.

Wren

Note: This poem was written a while ago when Occupy movement was at its peak. Hopefully the message inspires you either for good or bad. Comments and criticisms are welcome, as you may or may not agree with my perspective. 

Midnight

Midnight
A time when the world changes,
An arbitrarily significant mark,
Darkness slows space down,
Men and Women and Children
All to sandman's realm they go,
Except a few, animals too
Travel to this aether world

In this Time, I think.
In radio music and floating brain,
Concepts conceived
Thoughts throned
Insights intrigued
Logic looked over.

Under the stars and unmoon'd nights,
I imagine flux and tides of the utter blackness.

Wren

True Freedom

True Freedom

Lies not in a symbol of a hawk or maple leaf.

But in hearts and souls of those willing

To seek a voice and speak an act

For change for something different.

Wren

Magic of Internet

Magic of Internet

I no longer have to seek the refuge of libraries
To search through the tomes of ancients.
A quick two minutes on Google sets me
Onto an article on Wikipedia for free.
A knowledge given quickly at liberties.

Alas, this magic is not only white but black,
Draining sand from the hourglasses,
Vanity and Pride on Facebook and Twitter,
Glued to Youtube doesn't make us fitter.
Brains slowly melt like molasses.

An hour is either gained or lost,
This magic with an insidious cost.

Wren

Like a Love Poem

Like a Love Poem

Like swans in white plumed matrimony,
Like lightning seeking the antennae’s kiss,
Like gifts that cuddle under the Christmas tree,
Like box and ribbons in their tight embrace,

Like a key matching tumblers of a lock,
Like a snow-fluff fur of a baby kitten
Like Americans with their mighty hawk,
Like a hat to head, and hands to mittens,

Like lonely thymine craves her adenine,
Like white-tail drawn to moisture of a lake,
Like a proton drawn to his opposite,
Like pure icing pristine on fluffy cake,

It is natural, blue as open sky
A beautiful formula. You and I.

Wren

Sandman's Trap

Sandman's Trap

Sleep is a potent drug
Pulls you in its grasps
Honey dreams it promises
Like bees in a flytrap
We stick like gorilla glue
In circular nonsense
Of vivid livid dream.

Like any drug, we don't want it
Initially. We resist dozing
With even more drugs
Like coffee and that
Five-Hour energy thing.
Or even caffeine pills.
We eventually fall victim.

Addiction immaculate,
Without it our eyes go red
Vessels in brain pop
Double vision
Everywhere
Insanity
Falling
Fallin'
Gone
til
.

Anthem of Scholar

Anthem of Scholar

A rusty engine does not wish to awaken from its slumber.
Likewise, pens and keyboards do not create essays with ease
Or textbooks wish to be analysed asunder.
To get started, it must be appeased with grease.

Either the oil of threat of line of death that we must cross
Or of enthusiasm of simplicity in complexity of the universe
Revs the mind of a scholar to roar across
The vast planes of beautiful knowledge, pretty as verse.

-Wren