Poetry competition CLOSED 26th October 2017 1:26pm
WINNER
okanna93 (MJWells93)
okanna93 (MJWells93)
RUNNER-UP:
Postmortal
Why I write!
Anonymous
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Anonymous
<< post removed >>
I have sometimes been asked, because so many of my poems are erotic, if I am sexually frustrated and if poems are based on personal experience. I answer thus:
That has yet to be in my life
For I have not yet found a wife;
I am just well read in 'how It's done'
So I'll know how to have such fun
Should the Good Lord bring me a lady
For me to enjoy sexually.
I add frustrated I am not,
My imagination is just hot.
All my poetic sexy notes
Are literary wild oats.
That has yet to be in my life
For I have not yet found a wife;
I am just well read in 'how It's done'
So I'll know how to have such fun
Should the Good Lord bring me a lady
For me to enjoy sexually.
I add frustrated I am not,
My imagination is just hot.
All my poetic sexy notes
Are literary wild oats.
Finite the Write
I finish what I write
Not because I'm bright
But because I don't want to be slighted
My poems keep time
Always with rhyme
I don't know what else I can say
Read all my poems
You will see that writing
Isn't just a thing for me
I write my accounts of life
To the beat off my pulse
To keep my life in check
I'm very busy with my pen
Poems I write from the thin
From the air they transpose
To anything that goes
Keep my thoughts to myself
I wish they were on a shelf
I finish this rhyme with piece of mind
Knowing what's at stake
I keep to the grind and maybe one day I'll make
With time on my side
I will write with stride
Put my name in lights
So I finish my write
Even in spite that it's only on the internet.
Chelley Bean Poetess
I finish what I write
Not because I'm bright
But because I don't want to be slighted
My poems keep time
Always with rhyme
I don't know what else I can say
Read all my poems
You will see that writing
Isn't just a thing for me
I write my accounts of life
To the beat off my pulse
To keep my life in check
I'm very busy with my pen
Poems I write from the thin
From the air they transpose
To anything that goes
Keep my thoughts to myself
I wish they were on a shelf
I finish this rhyme with piece of mind
Knowing what's at stake
I keep to the grind and maybe one day I'll make
With time on my side
I will write with stride
Put my name in lights
So I finish my write
Even in spite that it's only on the internet.
Chelley Bean Poetess
Shedding Dead Skin for a Salad of Reason
I have a thirst, not of love, not of lust, not of apathy
a stronger mix, of passion, frustration, and indignation
running through my veins, a cocktail better than caffeine
extreme attracts me better than serenity, chaos is the order
trunk full of word, filled with delusions
I penned words, as I collect thoughts
expressing feelings, even those not my own
I see pictures moving inside my head
surreal and vivid, even in the dark or blinding light
ink is drawn to define those abstracts
from a-z, am confused with all those ie
memory often hazy, and I write as I remember
not correctly, but fragmented with fillings logically
or subjectively, partial to here and now only
memos etched for my own accountability
I read and Eminem rap his fancy, and so I listened
talking to myself appears to be some sort of lunacy
I exchange correspondence with a celebrity
to argue, to be heard, when I am muted conventionally
scribbling my will to fight the already given
Flashes of inspiration, calling my attention
keeping tab is the ghost of my indiscretion
wrestling still is tomorrow's illusions
within a body, soiled with a graying soul
transcribing before a lone juror, I
I am not confused, just resigned to not self-scrutinize
why I write what I write when I write, I just write
the answers, I can cheat with metaphors and satires
reality can be whatever you like perspective wise
my own, I will leave as to who you are as you are
chameleon is an animal festering in cyberland
a stronger mix, of passion, frustration, and indignation
running through my veins, a cocktail better than caffeine
extreme attracts me better than serenity, chaos is the order
trunk full of word, filled with delusions
I penned words, as I collect thoughts
expressing feelings, even those not my own
I see pictures moving inside my head
surreal and vivid, even in the dark or blinding light
ink is drawn to define those abstracts
from a-z, am confused with all those ie
memory often hazy, and I write as I remember
not correctly, but fragmented with fillings logically
or subjectively, partial to here and now only
memos etched for my own accountability
I read and Eminem rap his fancy, and so I listened
talking to myself appears to be some sort of lunacy
I exchange correspondence with a celebrity
to argue, to be heard, when I am muted conventionally
scribbling my will to fight the already given
Flashes of inspiration, calling my attention
keeping tab is the ghost of my indiscretion
wrestling still is tomorrow's illusions
within a body, soiled with a graying soul
transcribing before a lone juror, I
I am not confused, just resigned to not self-scrutinize
why I write what I write when I write, I just write
the answers, I can cheat with metaphors and satires
reality can be whatever you like perspective wise
my own, I will leave as to who you are as you are
chameleon is an animal festering in cyberland
Written by OxyMoronicMe
(G.L.)
Go To Page
why I write...?
I just say why not
sometimes you tried
to squeeze a sneeze
to avoid the sound
but it gives you pain
right between the eyes
why do you want to
block the flow of nature
and be in pain in vain
you don't want to hold
the flowing emotions
unlike a sneeze feelings
tend to remain in and
drag you into the pain
when you stop the flow
it tries to burst out from
somewhere else...
so why not be in words
weaved in line for another
to ride your feelings
laugh at your happiness
cry with you to your sadness
getting angry at every fucking
thing that made you mad
and to see if they enjoyed it...
so again I say, why not...
sometimes you tried
to squeeze a sneeze
to avoid the sound
but it gives you pain
right between the eyes
why do you want to
block the flow of nature
and be in pain in vain
you don't want to hold
the flowing emotions
unlike a sneeze feelings
tend to remain in and
drag you into the pain
when you stop the flow
it tries to burst out from
somewhere else...
so why not be in words
weaved in line for another
to ride your feelings
laugh at your happiness
cry with you to your sadness
getting angry at every fucking
thing that made you mad
and to see if they enjoyed it...
so again I say, why not...
Written by dejure
(vick)
Go To Page
Identity
Like a journal, my poetry is my diary,
Sometimes cold and sometimes fiery,
To capture the moments in life I've been granted,
It’s been the voice to my dreams,
What my subconscious screams,
The profound expressions that my soul has handed.
I write for the joy and the ache,
Nights when I’ve stayed awake,
When I’ve composed and read to remember and reflect,
It’s been to sort out my emotions,
To feel and deal with implosions,
To find those treasures in my heart I know I can protect.
I write because it makes feel alive,
It gives me the energy and drive,
To discover all passions possible known to men,
Ranging from love to rage and desires,
All that burns and yearns and inspires,
The peeks and peaks of imagination through my pen.
I write because it soothes me,
Whenever the spirit moves me,
It’s a photograph that my mind will quietly reminisce,
For in the words I find a splendor,
That my heart completely surrenders,
And in it I find my haven, my heaven and my bliss.
But most of all it gives me an identity,
To the point of peace and serenity,
That I’ve existed at some point in time and space,
And if I’m lucky they will carry on,
The words will stay long after I’m gone,
And it gives me a comfort that I happily embrace.
Like a journal, my poetry is my diary,
Sometimes cold and sometimes fiery,
To capture the moments in life I've been granted,
It’s been the voice to my dreams,
What my subconscious screams,
The profound expressions that my soul has handed.
I write for the joy and the ache,
Nights when I’ve stayed awake,
When I’ve composed and read to remember and reflect,
It’s been to sort out my emotions,
To feel and deal with implosions,
To find those treasures in my heart I know I can protect.
I write because it makes feel alive,
It gives me the energy and drive,
To discover all passions possible known to men,
Ranging from love to rage and desires,
All that burns and yearns and inspires,
The peeks and peaks of imagination through my pen.
I write because it soothes me,
Whenever the spirit moves me,
It’s a photograph that my mind will quietly reminisce,
For in the words I find a splendor,
That my heart completely surrenders,
And in it I find my haven, my heaven and my bliss.
But most of all it gives me an identity,
To the point of peace and serenity,
That I’ve existed at some point in time and space,
And if I’m lucky they will carry on,
The words will stay long after I’m gone,
And it gives me a comfort that I happily embrace.
Words are magical it
Gives meaning and feeling to everything.
I write to express and impress
To create a world that anyone would and could relate to or dream of experiencing.
Writing releases stress and help to navigate your thoughts.
An empty space could be highlighted with colors but would be most intriguing with words whether of meanings or just graffiti. Writing is a unique form of art which takes you places meeting orindary and famous people. Writing captures and cultivates moods it is the most vital part of creation from whatever background it originates. Writing enhances visuals which takes a person into a trance on a marvelous journey and where ever it leads you to, you can’t get enough. Writing is so powerful it became an addiction
“ Shivering...unsteadiness as sweat beads upon my skin my mouth is dry my skin is pale I yearn for a taste a smell or feeling...”
Gives meaning and feeling to everything.
I write to express and impress
To create a world that anyone would and could relate to or dream of experiencing.
Writing releases stress and help to navigate your thoughts.
An empty space could be highlighted with colors but would be most intriguing with words whether of meanings or just graffiti. Writing is a unique form of art which takes you places meeting orindary and famous people. Writing captures and cultivates moods it is the most vital part of creation from whatever background it originates. Writing enhances visuals which takes a person into a trance on a marvelous journey and where ever it leads you to, you can’t get enough. Writing is so powerful it became an addiction
“ Shivering...unsteadiness as sweat beads upon my skin my mouth is dry my skin is pale I yearn for a taste a smell or feeling...”
WHY I WRITE THIS
There's far more to say than you will ever see
but that's another story entirely
I got a little too pissed at my psychiatrist
for claiming I'm a satanist
getting ready to slit his wrists
while pissing on his face during a seminar
with fists tracing like tracers of scimitars
putting him in his place with ethereal guitars
blasting across the stage with imperial sound
blaring out rage in the background
cut off from prescriptions of effexor and xanax
to see new escalated electric perceptions
of amplified panic attacks
Rising in masses, no madness passes the ashes
to impale the asses of the entitled classes
All that I had has been taken away
All my paintings and sculpts, all I had to say
in pigment and molded clay and acts in a play
were stolen and put in another one's name
Now the pieces are lost to continue the game
yet my frame will always remain the same
New tools are always within my sight
and there is always something to embrace and to fight
and there is always some darkness that's always right
reflecting the lies of true light
They're always there to hold you tight
and beat you to a pulp in the night
There's always more stories for the sayers to tell
just as there's infinite glories within the layers of Hell
and there's always a way to express this true sight
so, hey, brothers and sisters in smothering blisters,
That's why I write
but that's another story entirely
I got a little too pissed at my psychiatrist
for claiming I'm a satanist
getting ready to slit his wrists
while pissing on his face during a seminar
with fists tracing like tracers of scimitars
putting him in his place with ethereal guitars
blasting across the stage with imperial sound
blaring out rage in the background
cut off from prescriptions of effexor and xanax
to see new escalated electric perceptions
of amplified panic attacks
Rising in masses, no madness passes the ashes
to impale the asses of the entitled classes
All that I had has been taken away
All my paintings and sculpts, all I had to say
in pigment and molded clay and acts in a play
were stolen and put in another one's name
Now the pieces are lost to continue the game
yet my frame will always remain the same
New tools are always within my sight
and there is always something to embrace and to fight
and there is always some darkness that's always right
reflecting the lies of true light
They're always there to hold you tight
and beat you to a pulp in the night
There's always more stories for the sayers to tell
just as there's infinite glories within the layers of Hell
and there's always a way to express this true sight
so, hey, brothers and sisters in smothering blisters,
That's why I write
Written by archetype23
Go To Page
i write to set myself free
I write when I am angry
I write when I am sad
I write when I am happy
I write to release my soul into the world unknown
Not the afterlife
Just the in between
I am not dead
but poetry is its own form of suicide
This is the only way I can speak my mind
please don't discourage me
Im mad
Im sad
but im also happy
what a surprise
that's why I love poetry
I write when I am angry
I write when I am sad
I write when I am happy
I write to release my soul into the world unknown
Not the afterlife
Just the in between
I am not dead
but poetry is its own form of suicide
This is the only way I can speak my mind
please don't discourage me
Im mad
Im sad
but im also happy
what a surprise
that's why I love poetry
I write to free my soul
Without it I have no role
Because I write I can feel
Otherwise I'm numb within
Writing breaths life into me
Fill m my lungs with words
Anger, passion, lust and greed
On which I feed
Place my heart on the page
So everyone can read
Look into my soul disposed
Only I know how to close
Without it I have no role
Because I write I can feel
Otherwise I'm numb within
Writing breaths life into me
Fill m my lungs with words
Anger, passion, lust and greed
On which I feed
Place my heart on the page
So everyone can read
Look into my soul disposed
Only I know how to close
