Poetry competition CLOSED 7th August 2021 10:38pm
WINNER
Abracadabra
Abracadabra
RUNNER-UP:
ReggiePoet
On the pains, travails, and joys of writing poetry
PoetsBlock
Ummm
The frog....
Her heavenly curves...
In an eerie fog...
Complex trigeminal nerves...
(heavy sigh)
Darn, where was I?
The frog....
Her heavenly curves...
In an eerie fog...
(heavy sigh)
Darn, where was I?
Written by Mastersensation
(Pent)
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Self Critique
It started with cutting just a few words,
not too much mostly cliche
but it made things worse
so I started in line by line
that seemed to work fine
apart from the habit of forcing my rhymes.
My titles never seem to work
and I think it should end
before the last verse
as most of the good stuff
is the bit that comes first.
They'll say he just stopped writing
but there's no poetry in that?
and although the petrol smell
is frightening and the tiptoed
noose is tightening.
It just comes down to the ending
and a slow mo match descending.
not too much mostly cliche
but it made things worse
so I started in line by line
that seemed to work fine
apart from the habit of forcing my rhymes.
My titles never seem to work
and I think it should end
before the last verse
as most of the good stuff
is the bit that comes first.
They'll say he just stopped writing
but there's no poetry in that?
and although the petrol smell
is frightening and the tiptoed
noose is tightening.
It just comes down to the ending
and a slow mo match descending.
Written by Razzerleaf
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What is the point
What's the point: what is the point of having a lover or a spouse and you don't show any love. Walking around each other with no good morning hugs. What is the point saying I love you to a person with no show, these days you have to put action behind your words. What is the point of lying instead of telling the truth these days people rather hear a lie to spare someone's feelings than set a person free with the truth? What is the point of cheating on your spouse if you say you love that person; leave so they can deal with the hurt alone, but they have to know their self-worth. Peace of mind is so beautiful you don't need anybody that is going to continue on hurting you, but these days certain people rather stay in messed up relationships than be happy. What is the point of drinking or doing drugs, may the Lord help y'all with the addiction we all need love and support at every point of our lives. What's the point of having a number in your phone and you not going to use it to just check on a person or to say what is up you don't know what a person going through. What is the point of having siblings and you don't see them or want to be around them? life too short to be acting like that family should stick together, these days your family can be your worse enemy. What is the point of being in a relationship and both of you forgetting the main part is the conversation. What is the point of having a friend and that person doesn't have your back?
Written by Driqwright1490
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Related submission no longer exists.
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Drought
Sometimes I find that I have lost my words --
and closed, are paths, that once were winding
and doused, are lights, that once were blinding.
They go to literary graves, I've heard--
and silence me, my voice, in binding
and dry the pen, the ink unwinding.
They're hiding in the summertime
I'm peeling layers off my skin
I'm finding nothing there to rhyme
Nothing lying deep within.
And if I hold you near me now
do you think that you might see
thoughts and letters swirling 'round,
drowning in transparency
-- of my dried up lines.
and closed, are paths, that once were winding
and doused, are lights, that once were blinding.
They go to literary graves, I've heard--
and silence me, my voice, in binding
and dry the pen, the ink unwinding.
They're hiding in the summertime
I'm peeling layers off my skin
I'm finding nothing there to rhyme
Nothing lying deep within.
And if I hold you near me now
do you think that you might see
thoughts and letters swirling 'round,
drowning in transparency
-- of my dried up lines.
Written by MadameLavender
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ON WRITING GOOD POETRY
a lack of angst
is death to poetry, baby
remember that
kill the terror
and the poetry dries up
one needs to lay his poor bare ass
on a hot grease grill to write good poetry
needs to feel the heat
right up through the neck of the spine
needs to want to die the hard way
blue fingered and alone
in a dumpster full of meat on the hottest
goddamn day of the year
and every bleak word
the product of a long, hard adolescence
that lasted well into one's sixties
and ended just like you thought it would
a poet needs a bottle
hugged close
and a dirty needle
hidden in a run down sock
in the cabinet
behind the moldy mayonnaise
and a smoker's cough
and to not give a rat's ass
or so he says
but goddamn if everything doesn't matter --
every nuance of expression
every wink and roll of a pretty eye
of every woman who left
or stayed
and every time his mama
swatted him or didn't
and whether god
blessed him with the genes of an angel
or a demon from the depths of hottest hell
and why oh why oh me oh my
hold the Xanax, honey,
i think i wanna type this morning
is death to poetry, baby
remember that
kill the terror
and the poetry dries up
one needs to lay his poor bare ass
on a hot grease grill to write good poetry
needs to feel the heat
right up through the neck of the spine
needs to want to die the hard way
blue fingered and alone
in a dumpster full of meat on the hottest
goddamn day of the year
and every bleak word
the product of a long, hard adolescence
that lasted well into one's sixties
and ended just like you thought it would
a poet needs a bottle
hugged close
and a dirty needle
hidden in a run down sock
in the cabinet
behind the moldy mayonnaise
and a smoker's cough
and to not give a rat's ass
or so he says
but goddamn if everything doesn't matter --
every nuance of expression
every wink and roll of a pretty eye
of every woman who left
or stayed
and every time his mama
swatted him or didn't
and whether god
blessed him with the genes of an angel
or a demon from the depths of hottest hell
and why oh why oh me oh my
hold the Xanax, honey,
i think i wanna type this morning
Written by javalini
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Shitwater
It's time for a change of pace and produce something new
So naturally the next step is to focus on poo
I'm sorry Mrs. Jackson, did not intend to upset your daughter
I only tried to share a glass of my finest shit water
That pungent smell and the unmatched viscosity
These uncultured swine call it a terrible atrocity
They fail to consider the potential of art
One can produce with a fugazi fart
So coat your brush as well as ink blotter
This modern Picasso paints with only shit water
A master of strokes and a blender of cultures
The smell is so awful it repels even vultures
Create new beginnings while the toilet faces slaughter
The power within comes from stanky shit water
So naturally the next step is to focus on poo
I'm sorry Mrs. Jackson, did not intend to upset your daughter
I only tried to share a glass of my finest shit water
That pungent smell and the unmatched viscosity
These uncultured swine call it a terrible atrocity
They fail to consider the potential of art
One can produce with a fugazi fart
So coat your brush as well as ink blotter
This modern Picasso paints with only shit water
A master of strokes and a blender of cultures
The smell is so awful it repels even vultures
Create new beginnings while the toilet faces slaughter
The power within comes from stanky shit water
Written by Girthquake
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Mable: A Coy Dutchess
Two buns and some meat
A burger or some anal
Two drums of some skeet
The synagogue or the cradle
I have chosen the crib
The results could be fatal
This baby needs a bib
Some cream cheese for its bagel
It wants to reason with me
It’s age makes it unable
I’d ignore it if it could
Some would call me unstable
We sit at opposite ends
Of the mahogany table
I think “slip the tip in”
I want my hog in ye, Mable
But before I throatpie the infant
I gift my sack with a staple
My cock oozes sweet syrup
I’m not talkin’ bout maple
A burger or some anal
Two drums of some skeet
The synagogue or the cradle
I have chosen the crib
The results could be fatal
This baby needs a bib
Some cream cheese for its bagel
It wants to reason with me
It’s age makes it unable
I’d ignore it if it could
Some would call me unstable
We sit at opposite ends
Of the mahogany table
I think “slip the tip in”
I want my hog in ye, Mable
But before I throatpie the infant
I gift my sack with a staple
My cock oozes sweet syrup
I’m not talkin’ bout maple
Written by Girthquake
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Your Orders
Tickle the cock, the balls, and the gooch
Then come around
Give anus a smooch
Then come around
Give anus a smooch
Written by Girthquake
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