Poetry competition CLOSED 3rd December 2021 5:47pm
WINNER
_feral
_feral
RUNNERS-UP:
PoeticInjustice
and robert43041
Why??
Poetry Contest Description
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.
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.
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.
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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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
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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Anonymous
<< post removed >>
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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Anonymous
<< post removed >>
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,
perceived 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
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,
perceived 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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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
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
(Astral Gift)
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