Poetry competition CLOSED 31st March 2025 11:23pm
WINNER
ReggiePoet (Reggie)
ReggiePoet (Reggie)
DARK!
The Aversion You Live
Fields of delight
Smell the lie divine
Right this way
Do not decline
Taste the deceit
Your version that might
be more sweet
than the aversion you live
Standing outside the fire
Standing there you lust
Virility smolders into
a tepid perversion of
an orange sky
Your ashes into it
Smell the lie divine
Right this way
Do not decline
Taste the deceit
Your version that might
be more sweet
than the aversion you live
Standing outside the fire
Standing there you lust
Virility smolders into
a tepid perversion of
an orange sky
Your ashes into it
Written by BaldyBrown
(Sordid and Sacred)
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From the Wrong Side of the Street
a BDSM story, in verse
Her daddy was wealthy, a powerful judge
Her boyfriend, a rowdy athlete
Against whom her dad soon developed a grudge—
He was from the wrong side of the street!
The judge warned the lad to stay clear of his daughter
And the boy dared to laugh in his face!
Then he boasted his dicking had already brought her
A craving no dad could displace!
That very same night, the lad failed to appear
For their next clandestine rendezvous
She tried calling and calling, but he wasn’t there
The poor girl started coming unglued!
Cops found the young man tightly strapped to a bench
On the sidewalk along Courthouse Square
He was naked, and someone had whipped the poor wretch
And his pubis was shorn of its hair
He was gagged with his jockey strap, having been stripped
With no sign of the rest of his clothes
Someone drenched him in urine and smeared him with shit
And left him disgraced and exposed
Most horrific of all, he had been mutilated
His wounds heinous, and most indiscrete
The poor lad had been bull-whipped and fully castrated
With his Genitals tacked to a tree!
Fresh sutures appeared there between the bound legs
Of the eunuch, once so well-endowed
Which prevented him bleeding out, under that tree
Where his Manhood hung, ample and proud
Upon learning his fate, his girlfriend was distraught
When her father had brought her to see
The lesson anonymous privilege had taught
And left hanging there, tacked to that tree!
Her daddy was wealthy, a powerful judge
Her boyfriend, a rowdy athlete
Against whom her dad soon developed a grudge—
He was from the wrong side of the street!
The judge warned the lad to stay clear of his daughter
And the boy dared to laugh in his face!
Then he boasted his dicking had already brought her
A craving no dad could displace!
That very same night, the lad failed to appear
For their next clandestine rendezvous
She tried calling and calling, but he wasn’t there
The poor girl started coming unglued!
Cops found the young man tightly strapped to a bench
On the sidewalk along Courthouse Square
He was naked, and someone had whipped the poor wretch
And his pubis was shorn of its hair
He was gagged with his jockey strap, having been stripped
With no sign of the rest of his clothes
Someone drenched him in urine and smeared him with shit
And left him disgraced and exposed
Most horrific of all, he had been mutilated
His wounds heinous, and most indiscrete
The poor lad had been bull-whipped and fully castrated
With his Genitals tacked to a tree!
Fresh sutures appeared there between the bound legs
Of the eunuch, once so well-endowed
Which prevented him bleeding out, under that tree
Where his Manhood hung, ample and proud
Upon learning his fate, his girlfriend was distraught
When her father had brought her to see
The lesson anonymous privilege had taught
And left hanging there, tacked to that tree!
Written by ReggiePoet
(Reggie)
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"The Feathers Fall, The Stone's Lament"
A chasm yawned, a sepulchral well,
Wherein my soul, in darkness fell.
No Lethe’s stream, no quenching tide,
But arid void, where phantoms hide.
I knew it not, the fatal leap,
But found myself where shadows sleep.
This “beauty,” fiendish, hellish art,
A vaulted tomb, to tear apart.
The moon, a spectral, pallid gleam,
A moment’s respite, a fevered dream.
A rounded chamber, cold and vast,
Where hope lies shattered, shadows cast.
Emptiness, a shroud, a winding sheet,
I crave its touch, its bitter sweet.
I breathe, a gasp, a hollow sigh,
And laugh, a sound that makes the angels die.
No fear, no dread, no mortal plea,
But silent madness, claiming me.
The heart, a pendulum, in morbid sway,
Beats out the dirge of my decay.
I preach, a sermon, dark and deep,
From depths of self, where secrets sleep.
I VENT! A raven’s croak, a tortured cry,
A sound that rends the midnight sky.
My brow, a dented, ruined dome,
Is this a dream, or spectral home?
I REMEMBER, fragments, pale and wan,
And FORGET, the light of days now gone.
Words, like feathers, soft and frail,
To hardened stone, in stress’s gale.
This asylum, mine, a haunted keep,
Where beauty festers, sorrows creep.
My senses numb, to fear’s cold sting,
No flight remains, no soaring wing.
“My dear,” I whisper, “weep no more,”
For tears are vain, on this desolate shore.
They fall, like acid, from my weary eyes,
As time, a phantom, swiftly flies.
No love, no solace, can be sent,
In this dark realm, where reason’s rent.
I breathe, a deathly, hollow sound,
And laugh, where sanity is drowned.
No fear, no hope, no mortal plea,
But silent madness, claiming me.
The limit broken, reason’s flight,
In this dark chamber, endless night.
Patience, a raven, flown away,
Leaving madness, in grim display.
The world, a whisper, faint and low,
As I descend, where shadows grow.
The only truth, the only call,
The echo of madness, claiming all.
Wherein my soul, in darkness fell.
No Lethe’s stream, no quenching tide,
But arid void, where phantoms hide.
I knew it not, the fatal leap,
But found myself where shadows sleep.
This “beauty,” fiendish, hellish art,
A vaulted tomb, to tear apart.
The moon, a spectral, pallid gleam,
A moment’s respite, a fevered dream.
A rounded chamber, cold and vast,
Where hope lies shattered, shadows cast.
Emptiness, a shroud, a winding sheet,
I crave its touch, its bitter sweet.
I breathe, a gasp, a hollow sigh,
And laugh, a sound that makes the angels die.
No fear, no dread, no mortal plea,
But silent madness, claiming me.
The heart, a pendulum, in morbid sway,
Beats out the dirge of my decay.
I preach, a sermon, dark and deep,
From depths of self, where secrets sleep.
I VENT! A raven’s croak, a tortured cry,
A sound that rends the midnight sky.
My brow, a dented, ruined dome,
Is this a dream, or spectral home?
I REMEMBER, fragments, pale and wan,
And FORGET, the light of days now gone.
Words, like feathers, soft and frail,
To hardened stone, in stress’s gale.
This asylum, mine, a haunted keep,
Where beauty festers, sorrows creep.
My senses numb, to fear’s cold sting,
No flight remains, no soaring wing.
“My dear,” I whisper, “weep no more,”
For tears are vain, on this desolate shore.
They fall, like acid, from my weary eyes,
As time, a phantom, swiftly flies.
No love, no solace, can be sent,
In this dark realm, where reason’s rent.
I breathe, a deathly, hollow sound,
And laugh, where sanity is drowned.
No fear, no hope, no mortal plea,
But silent madness, claiming me.
The limit broken, reason’s flight,
In this dark chamber, endless night.
Patience, a raven, flown away,
Leaving madness, in grim display.
The world, a whisper, faint and low,
As I descend, where shadows grow.
The only truth, the only call,
The echo of madness, claiming all.
Written by NANCY_RDZ_STORIES
(WRITER LYRICIST ARTIST)
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"The Chirping Witness"
Pinocchio, marionette of lies,
A painted smile, beneath a venomous guise.
He'd weave his tales, a silken, twisted thread,
While Cricket watched, his conscience, cold and dead.
Each fib a dagger, aimed at truth's frail heart,
He'd boast of feats, a masterful, deceptive art.
The strings would tighten, as the lies took hold,
And Cricket's song, grew weary, frail, and old.
He saw the puppet, rise to heights of shame,
A hollow shell, consumed by lust and fame.
He watched the victims, fall to their despair,
As Pinocchio, with laughter, mocked their care.
The puppet's soul, a withered, blackened vine,
Twisted and gnarled, a grotesque design.
He'd sneer at morals, spit on all that's true,
While Cricket wept, in silent, mournful hue.
And as the years passed, and the lies grew bold,
The Cricket's song, a chilling, mournful fold.
A witness mute, to every wicked deed,
He watched the puppet, sow a poisoned seed.
Finally, the strings, snapped with a cruel release,
And Pinocchio, fell into a cold embrace.
The Cricket chirped, a mournful, final strain,
For puppet and for lies, a bitter rain.
A painted smile, beneath a venomous guise.
He'd weave his tales, a silken, twisted thread,
While Cricket watched, his conscience, cold and dead.
Each fib a dagger, aimed at truth's frail heart,
He'd boast of feats, a masterful, deceptive art.
The strings would tighten, as the lies took hold,
And Cricket's song, grew weary, frail, and old.
He saw the puppet, rise to heights of shame,
A hollow shell, consumed by lust and fame.
He watched the victims, fall to their despair,
As Pinocchio, with laughter, mocked their care.
The puppet's soul, a withered, blackened vine,
Twisted and gnarled, a grotesque design.
He'd sneer at morals, spit on all that's true,
While Cricket wept, in silent, mournful hue.
And as the years passed, and the lies grew bold,
The Cricket's song, a chilling, mournful fold.
A witness mute, to every wicked deed,
He watched the puppet, sow a poisoned seed.
Finally, the strings, snapped with a cruel release,
And Pinocchio, fell into a cold embrace.
The Cricket chirped, a mournful, final strain,
For puppet and for lies, a bitter rain.
Written by NANCY_RDZ_STORIES
(WRITER LYRICIST ARTIST)
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