#selfdefense
I hate love poems.
I hate wet blubbering fools.
I hate ting! – ting! silver bells.
I hate, I hate, I hate
Cute I love you’s;
Little, naked cupids
Bow-bent, waiting.
I hate love poems.
I hate sweet hot convulsions on paper.
I hate. Oh! Oh! Ahh…..!
Desire when
Two touch.
I hate love poems.
I hate silent bells
And broken arrows,
I hate boo – hoo –
Love poems dipped in
Hate – thick red
And dripping
Self defense.
But most of all,
I hate
The soft,
And final,
Kiss.
Nov 18, 2021
Nov 18, 2021 at 3:59 AM UTC
To paint white lies on a white fence —
to call it kindness, in your defence.
To block out the ugly truths from
reaching your close friends —
but those blind lies keep them fenced.
A combat sport with them — _fencing,_
no mask, no stance, no discipline.
And me? I can’t claim innocence;
truth slips from me like an offence —
too sharp, too blunt, depending when.
Of the sense you say you have, it measures
less the less you choose to correct your friends.
To paint white lies on a white fence,
all in hopes to block offence — it’s art,
you say — but art that hides is just pretense.
Every brushstroke builds a wall instead,
till your kindness feels like self-defence;
painted white again and again.
A play of “offence.”
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 5:30 AM UTC
The Weight I Carry (And What It Costs)
The past is not behind me—
It walks beside me still.
It speaks in quiet moments
And bends me to its will.
It lingers in the sterile light,
It echoes in the hum
Of monitors and whispered prayers
When hope is all but gone.
The present isn’t softer—
It pulses through the pain
Of patients breaking in my hands,
Of lives I can’t sustain.
But I know how to sit with fear,
I’ve breathed through it for years.
I’ve felt the dark press on my chest
And fought back drowning tears.
PTSD has marked my soul,
But made me sharp and kind.
I see the wounds behind the words
That others never find.
In scrubs, I’m strong, I speak with calm,
I know just what to do.
At work, I give what’s left of me
To help someone pull through.
But when I cross the threshold home,
The weight becomes too loud.
The walls expect a gentler me
Than what I’m still allowed.
The stress I never fully name,
It follows me inside.
And suddenly, the smallest things
Feel like a wave, a tide.
I’m not as soft, I’m not as still,
I shut down when you speak.
I’ve run dry from giving all day—
There’s nothing left to leak.
And though I love with all I am,
Some nights, I disappear.
Not into war zones far away,
But right beside you here.
So if I seem a world away,
Or cold when I come home—
Know it’s not you I push against,
Just the silence I’ve outgrown.
The past still lives inside my bones,
The present takes its toll.
But loving you and healing too—
It’s both my wound and goal.
And all I ask is that you see
The fight behind the face.
I’m learning how to carry less,
And come back to this place.
So hold me when the light runs low,
Remind me love is near—
That even when I give too much,
There’s still room to be here.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 21, 2025
Apr 21, 2025 at 1:43 PM UTC
strumming my guitar’s chords
stumbling over countless records
i’ve been bored
stuck to the idea of being that loser
in her eyes
nothing but in her eyes
beaten up for free,
forced to pay a fee
to coat both my hands in chrome
using a snake to clean the rusted strings
using paper to cut
the tips of my fingers
to relieve this bored state
bleeds more than enough
paper cuts do hurt
just the thing
that gives that sting!
Apr 9, 2025
Apr 9, 2025 at 8:51 PM UTC
Three words whispered by someone
in the past were drifting behind my eyes:
“Don’t embarrass yourself.”
Trigger-induction, hypnotic phrase
stiffening my muscles,
getting stuck in my legs.
These words make me straighten up
just in case, to avoid becoming a farce,
to not risk interior pain.
I walked through the narrow hallway
some stories were explained,
others remained in the pharynx
of watchful colossal squid.
I’m a broken record,
a sponge drinking salt drops.
Hidden, desiring wishes used
not to be said.
Self-censorship is an easy way.
Just with a bit of self-irony,
I try to play fair; I try to play safe.
Stamping my tiny, rumpled ticket
joining a collective perfect match,
even if I don’t fit into this craziest crowd.
Until now, when through the crack,
the water has gone untamed,
refusing to return to the flood control dam.
I’m afraid of what will be next
when the water swallows
my piece of comfort la-la land.
Caught asking myself
to go where there is real music
or stay in an illusory state.
Mar 29, 2025
Mar 29, 2025 at 6:09 PM UTC
A trained martial artist knows how to move
because that is the way he's able to groove.
He often turns quickly and looks all around
then at times jumps or leaps off the ground.
Balanced and ready to show one his skill
by these movements he is able to thrill.
You can easily get captivated by his speed
which seems so very impressive indeed.
A swift block, ****** or kick he deploys
all the measures of self defense employs.
It's amazing what a disciplined life can do
as both the body and mind will benefit too.
_________________
Aug 4, 2024
Aug 4, 2024 at 7:42 AM UTC
When I was a girl
my mother trained me to be docile.
"If you ignore them, they will move on" she would say,
brushing the comb through my hair as I whined at every knot she pulled.
I learned to shrink,
to be an unworthy target left less blood in my mouth.
I learned to hide,
if they could not see me there would be no meat for them to pull from my bones.
I learned to be afraid,
because fear is the instinct that has left us alive.
When I was 15,
they told me I was strong
as my spine curved
to keep my head below the water
and the sun off my face,
but the more child-like my disposition
the more they wanted to hear me scream.
Now I am a woman
who pulls her hair into buns because they are harder to grab
and I no longer whine as I pull through the knots
but my eyes still water at the sting.
I have been labeled a *****
rude
bossy
annoying
but I would rather be a ***** than dead.
I used to think shrinking would make me undesirable
but being small did not stop them from devouring me.
So I have grown fangs through this smile,
made myself too big to consume
if they want to eat me
they will have to eat me as I am,
with all my sharpened edges and tough skin.
I am the woman who has grown fangs
and I will not make myself small and easily digestible for anyone anymore.
You may consume me,
but you will bleed for it.
Sep 20, 2020
Sep 20, 2020 at 6:07 PM UTC
You're the type of person
who can stir up all my feelings.
You're always there, in my thinking,
wandering around.
It's okay,
It's safe,
For you to be there,
For me to have you there,
So let's just keep it there.
Mar 7, 2020
Mar 7, 2020 at 4:09 AM UTC
There's a knot in the base of my throat.
It plants itself and grows roots inside my lungs.
A thought escapes and the roots ****** against my chest and I'm struggling to breath.
My eyes blurred the world leaving me with distorted images that mix with bleeding colors.
I sit there frozen.
What is this body that leaves me numb?
I despise the thought of being another broken.
Why can't I make my thoughts look prettier?
I couldn't give it what it needed.
I searched for it in the exchanges of whispers as I laid my body down for the boys who wanted their turn.
I searched for it in the moon that illuminates my hair.
It was the only thing I could count on when I looked up.
I dreamt that it would take me in the purple clouds if I could just swing high enough.
Floating like a feather but my heart full and heavy from the moonlight.
But I haven't swung in so long and these roots keep growing.
Weighing my chest down more and i'm scared i'll never get to fly.
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 11:24 AM UTC