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Why??

RobinHood
RobinHood
Robin
Lost Thinker
United States
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Joined 22nd Mar 2019
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Poetry Contest

Please provide a poem that embodies your reason for writing poetry. Compare and contrast with alternatives.
For example, would you rather be fishing or writing a poem?
Talking to a friend or writing a poem?
Drawing a picture or writing a poem?

Use the art of poetry to justify its place in life.

If you are so inclined, trace the boundaries between poetry and the real world.

robert43041
robert43041
Viking
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Canada
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Writing poetry

Writing poetry , for me,  
Is a form of escapism.
I write poetry to escape
My daily reality.
I write poetry to bring out
And chase away the devils in me.
I write poetry to invent good,
Bad and ugly fantasies.
I write poetry to chase after
Beauty , fun, and pleasure,
Not to say immense relief,
Some contentment and  
A shade of happiness.
I write poetry to bring  some life
To the life that I do not have.
To the life that is not in me.
Written by robert43041 (Viking)
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LadyPuck
LadyPuck
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United States
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Your poem reminds me of Oscar Wildes preface to Picture of Dorian Grey.... and certain phrases within the novel about how art is artists truth and their mirrored image is artifact.

robert43041
robert43041
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Once read, Dorian Grey sticks to your mind like glue. So many realities in there.

PoeticInjustice
PoeticInjustice
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The Thought Collector

I am the thought collector.  
With a synaptic net,  
I catch these fleeting reminders
Of my consciousness.  
Like a child in a field,  
Chasing down butterflies.  
Attempting to catch all the colors.  
Putting them in jars and  
Storing them on the shelves of my mind.  
Dusting off the fragile glass vessels  
That have become memories.  
Occasionally admiring my collection  
As it grows.  
My my, how full  
These shelves have become.  
Some strain under the weight of  
The vast array of all the species  
I have contained.  
Then it happens.  
The shelf bows and the jars slide.  
They come crashing down.  
Each shattering and releasing an
 Individual swarm.  
Like thick indigo waves  
Spiraling behind my eyes.  
Surrounding me.  
Forcing me to watch  
As they irratically dance  
Throughout my poor, frantic brain.  
The calm has become the storm.  
Then, through the madness,  
Comes the messenger.  
The one thought  
That can never be contained.  
Piercing the swarm,  
It delivers it's message.  
"Remember,  
You are the thought collector."  
And with that,  
I pick up my synaptic net,  
Become the child in the field  
And like so many times before.  
 I begin collecting.  
 
5/11/2018
Written by PoeticInjustice
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robert43041
robert43041
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Very nicely crafted.  Regards, Robert.

LadyPuck
LadyPuck
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❤️

Insiderew
Insiderew
Rew
Fire of Insight
England
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Daily Strife a villanelle

I get peace within Poetry from strife    
writing the world does not intrude on me        
with its gross madness the hard facts of life        
        
though I confess even here I've to strive        
but it's a whole different world, do you see?   
I get peace in Triolet writes from strife.        
       
The world shrinks much narrower as I write        
Villanelles, the world disappears, recedes,      
with all its madness and hard facts of life,        
       
its indiscriminate hate those bad vibes        
but somehow in Rondeaux I become me    
gaining peace in Rhymes from day to day strife.        
       
Within life's strife will death become 1st Prize?        
Sonnetless lifes kills one's identity        
with its heavy maddening facts of life,        
       
but mostly my spirit is peaceful, Blythe,       
when writing poetry I find rightly        
that peace exists in Rhymes away from strife        
and madness, in other parts, of my life.
Written by Insiderew (Rew)
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robert43041
robert43041
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Dear Rew:  with so much talent in you, your are, as usual,  a difficult act to follow.   Regards, Robert.

crimsin
crimsin
Unveiling
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the sacred art

 
my anxiety peaked and i couldn't talk
I felt like a coil was winding ever tighter ready to pop
into the dark I fell
I don't remember what happened next
my mind to this day is foggy

I somehow ended up here deep under the ground
where I began to write
just a few words here and there to start
I wasn't practiced at the art of poetry
I didn't know the language I just babbled
but I expressed my pain the best way I knew how

the wards of this place watched on quietly as I evolved
it seems I was invited here by the unknown
the people took me in and made me feel at home

I realized this was a true gift, an art form
my pain fueled it and my poems were written with my blood
my hurt expressed in crimson
I was utterly driven to write
I had no choice my suffering too great

a certified hermit without social graces
I found this was a place I could safely socialize
soon I knew the poet language
using it as an art form of expression
its taught me a lot about who I am as a person
who the universe is and my place in it

I love the people here they understand this special language
it is a true artistic gift
this place sacred



Written by crimsin (Unveiling)
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poet Anonymous

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Blackwolf
Blackwolf
I.M.Blackwolf
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"Use the art of poetry to justify its place in life."

Words Coming In , Duck !

Not That It Is A Sin , But What The F**k ! ?

robert43041
robert43041
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Said with much passion.   Regards, Robert.

slipalong
slipalong
Fire of Insight
United Kingdom
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The evil mistress  

The temptress comes with painted lips,
while the jungle of the garden sits.
 Beckons one with sultry lies, and lures your will,
the laddered stocking of each line instilled.
To tear the cup that brims so sweet
the abandonment. the growing child left unconceived.
Shun moulding green upon the bread
a hunger that cannot be fed

We capture all, the chronicles of life
and shape it so, and give it stripes.
Through the mundane, dance to the drummer and the pipes,
glean and hone, scrape and file.
Wake at 3 am,
believe it's worth 10/10.
That bitch will twist and turn like some reptile,
the agitation never rest.
Our muse has laid a sweet conquest

 
Written by slipalong
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personanongrata
personanongrata
persona non grata
Thought Provoker
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I'M NO POET

I'm no poet
I'm his scream
I'm like the water that turned to wine

I'm no poet
I'm his dream
that felt like nightmare and was declined

I'm no poet
I'm his words
which noone is ever going to read

I am inchoate
I am worse
than anyone that you 'll ever meeτ

I'm no door
I'm its key
I'm a tiny little grain of sand

I'm no saw
I'm just me
but I'm a miracle made by Your Hand

I'm no poet
I'm a verse
I'm a living undead curse
Written by personanongrata (persona non grata)
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