Poetry Competition Ends 15th February 2025 5:01pm
Page:
Writing As Our Armor
Poetry Contest Description
Write a new poem of any length describing how writing fortifies your spirit. Some of us here on DUP suffer from mental health issues as well as addiction. How does poetry or writing in general lift your spirits?
Writing As My Armor
Unsighted eyes these are!
Blind with hallucinations
yet so perceptive of beauty.
I cannot recognize reality,
yet surrealism takes a definite form to me.
I don’t want to live like this forever.
It is not at all what I imagined
when I was very young.
I dreamed of being a soldier.
With an armor of confidence
and a superb IQ and riches.
But I cannot and will not deny reality!
I am mentally ill. I am not without oddities.
All I can do now is wear it as my armor,
or, as my strength in life against judgments!
If I am to rise again from the ashes of this life,
I need to understand I didn’t receive writing talent
as a gift but over my life I built it on my own!
Blind with hallucinations
yet so perceptive of beauty.
I cannot recognize reality,
yet surrealism takes a definite form to me.
I don’t want to live like this forever.
It is not at all what I imagined
when I was very young.
I dreamed of being a soldier.
With an armor of confidence
and a superb IQ and riches.
But I cannot and will not deny reality!
I am mentally ill. I am not without oddities.
All I can do now is wear it as my armor,
or, as my strength in life against judgments!
If I am to rise again from the ashes of this life,
I need to understand I didn’t receive writing talent
as a gift but over my life I built it on my own!
Written by gothicsurrealism
(Daniel Long)
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journey journal...
these pages mark the passing of my life
the lessons & leanings
what I learn about myself
my sanctuary
where I tattoo all my pain in a flood of ink
in this ever growing volume of me
safe to express
without seeing judgment in...
...or rolling of...
...the witnessing eyes
& I wonder sometimes
what will become of these fragile chapters
my thoughts...my aches...my dreams...
when they're all that's left of me
will they read them & finally comprehend
who I really am
or would it be best...
...to simply burn the book
in the way of all truths...
...too painful to accept...
Written by WillowsWhimsies
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"Writsilience"
Ink bleeds slow from hollow veins
A ghostly script of loss remains
Each word a whisper, torn and thin
Etched in silence, steeped in sin
Candles flicker, shadows writhe
Memories wake but not alive
Fingers trace the lines they penned
Yet every sentence meets its end
The parchment wilts, the letters fade
A tomb of echoes, softly laid
No hand to mend and no voice to weep
Just resilience—grief that wilts and creeps
Ink bleeds slow from hollow veins
A ghostly script of loss remains
Each word a whisper, torn and thin
Etched in silence, steeped in sin
Candles flicker, shadows writhe
Memories wake but not alive
Fingers trace the lines they penned
Yet every sentence meets its end
The parchment wilts, the letters fade
A tomb of echoes, softly laid
No hand to mend and no voice to weep
Just resilience—grief that wilts and creeps
Seeking Storm and Stress
We should all be tormented artists,
at least once.
Let everyone feel in heaves, in
impetuous sighs, moans, and odes.
Everyone should paint at least one
messianic vision of homely sunflowers,
compose at least one
tumultuous opera,
harkening to ages of faery,
peasants, and knights.
We ought to all
feel the pressure
of the fall, and
of the call,
and of the then fall,
the next call, another fall,
one last call, if
only to know
what it is to shatter
and rebuild,
learning through splitting and
re-stitching what it is that makes us.
Give seething feeling just one shot,
transmute it into all-enduring art,
and you’ll know how
to adhere to your heart,
why we breathe as we do.
at least once.
Let everyone feel in heaves, in
impetuous sighs, moans, and odes.
Everyone should paint at least one
messianic vision of homely sunflowers,
compose at least one
tumultuous opera,
harkening to ages of faery,
peasants, and knights.
We ought to all
feel the pressure
of the fall, and
of the call,
and of the then fall,
the next call, another fall,
one last call, if
only to know
what it is to shatter
and rebuild,
learning through splitting and
re-stitching what it is that makes us.
Give seething feeling just one shot,
transmute it into all-enduring art,
and you’ll know how
to adhere to your heart,
why we breathe as we do.
Written by olliec
(Oliver Cocks)
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The Royals vs the poet's realm
Of splendid thrones of gold
or treasures manifold
Of jewelled caskets
or lavish banquets
Of Emirs and rajahs
Of Sultan and Shahs
Of kings and queens
Of rulers and emperors
Of sparkling crowns
or flowing gowns
Of their subservient stewards and obedient pages
Of their stalwart squires and servile knaves
Of poor humble, docile minions
who tended to regal pavilions
And obeisantly carried royal palanquins
Oh and some were real life harlequins
Of castles and palaces
of abounding gold and silver
in ostentatious regal splendour
The sidelined fanning maids in waiting
Yet to me only one thing worth noticing
The minstrels who came to sing
from afar for the queen and king
For I'd rather be a poetess for kings
so to my tunes swayed a kingdom
than I be the king of mere subjects
and be filled with regal boredom!
So I could join ranks of
troubadours
and sing for the king
some folklores.
A passion for poesy
For magic of literacy [/b]
Written by Zaynab_kamoonpury
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