Poetry competition CLOSED 12th January 2023 2:41pm
WINNER
Wafflenose (Ellie)
Wafflenose (Ellie)
The Ruff Fukr Competition
Poetry Contest Description
Write a book in a year
What it do...
As you know a New Year is upon us...
Time for resolutions...
*. *. *
Guidelines to this Competition:
- Write a poem about anything
- I will select a winner
(All entrants into this competition
are entering a verbal agreement
with themselves to complete a
book of all new poetry, written
in the next 12 months...)
(If this is achieved, the completion
of a new work of poetry, the
entrant has the right to exercise
a "crypto clause", whereupon
they will receive crypto from the
producer of this competition,
who will also be writing a new book...)
Related submission no longer exists.
I am interested this is a short rewrite of my experience before sobriety in Baltimore homeless
Fetanyl
The sick misfit swindling every last tidbit of my junkie minded emotionally blinded hope,
At this point I think my guardian angel is hooked on dope, because every time I pray to stop a day where needles aggressively poke my scarred and tired crooks of my arms, I get no answer and repeat this hellish pattern it’s been a decade and time even all my friends happened to die, I’m alone now unable to find a friend as loyal as the soft white powder of death, that 5 dollar bag of pure devilish relief, I can’t even sit infront of and speak to a loved one, because I’m no longer the one they love, hell I don’t even love the one I become, sleeping on dirty concrete stained with the blood of my hopes and dreams, only to help in freezing my back to the cold lonesome street when the winter comes, which I grew to accustom to how to peel my skin up and off that dispicale excuse of my only bed, so I may ensue the hysteria just to not be sick, any little trick or scheme to feed the disease until my body decides it’s defied death from the posion flowing in and out of my veins all day and once again makes that concrete bed I claim not so bad, my mom wouldn’t even recognize me if she was here and I’m not so sad, I wouldn’t want even a long lost fear weather friend to let alone the woman I was raised by for Fetanyl put all those memories and feelings for her on standby, maybe one day I’ll once again regain the brains I had to help refrain from giving in and coping with this pain with another fix for I’m so lost my sorrows could be melted down like black tar so strong the world could get high off my depression
Fetanyl
The sick misfit swindling every last tidbit of my junkie minded emotionally blinded hope,
At this point I think my guardian angel is hooked on dope, because every time I pray to stop a day where needles aggressively poke my scarred and tired crooks of my arms, I get no answer and repeat this hellish pattern it’s been a decade and time even all my friends happened to die, I’m alone now unable to find a friend as loyal as the soft white powder of death, that 5 dollar bag of pure devilish relief, I can’t even sit infront of and speak to a loved one, because I’m no longer the one they love, hell I don’t even love the one I become, sleeping on dirty concrete stained with the blood of my hopes and dreams, only to help in freezing my back to the cold lonesome street when the winter comes, which I grew to accustom to how to peel my skin up and off that dispicale excuse of my only bed, so I may ensue the hysteria just to not be sick, any little trick or scheme to feed the disease until my body decides it’s defied death from the posion flowing in and out of my veins all day and once again makes that concrete bed I claim not so bad, my mom wouldn’t even recognize me if she was here and I’m not so sad, I wouldn’t want even a long lost fear weather friend to let alone the woman I was raised by for Fetanyl put all those memories and feelings for her on standby, maybe one day I’ll once again regain the brains I had to help refrain from giving in and coping with this pain with another fix for I’m so lost my sorrows could be melted down like black tar so strong the world could get high off my depression
Fetanyl
Fetanyl
The sick misfit swindling every last tidbit of my junkie minded emotionally blinded hope,
At this point I think my guardian angel is hooked on dope, because every time I pray to stop a day where needles aggressively poke my scarred and tired crooks of my arms, I get no answer and repeat this hellish pattern it’s been a decade in time even all my friends happened to die, I’m alone now unable to find a friend as loyal as the soft white powder of death, that 5 dollar bag of pure devilish relief, I can’t even sit infront of and speak to a loved one, because I’m no longer the one they love, hell I don’t even love the one I become, sleeping on dirty concrete stained with the blood of my hopes and dreams, only to help freeze my back to the cold lonesome street when the winter comes, which I grew to accustom on how to peel my skin up and off that dispicale excuse of my only bed, so I may ensue the hysteria just to not be sick, any little trick or scheme to feed the disease until my body decides it’s defied death from the posion flowing in and out of my veins all day and once again makes that concrete bed I claim not so bad, my mom wouldn’t even recognize me if she was here and I’m not so sad, I wouldn’t even want a long lost fear weather friend to, let alone the woman I was raised by for Fetanyl put all those memories and feelings for her on standby, maybe one day I’ll once again regain the brains I had to help refrain from giving in and coping with this pain with another fix for I’m so lost my sorrows could be melted down like black tar so strong the world could get high off my depression
The sick misfit swindling every last tidbit of my junkie minded emotionally blinded hope,
At this point I think my guardian angel is hooked on dope, because every time I pray to stop a day where needles aggressively poke my scarred and tired crooks of my arms, I get no answer and repeat this hellish pattern it’s been a decade in time even all my friends happened to die, I’m alone now unable to find a friend as loyal as the soft white powder of death, that 5 dollar bag of pure devilish relief, I can’t even sit infront of and speak to a loved one, because I’m no longer the one they love, hell I don’t even love the one I become, sleeping on dirty concrete stained with the blood of my hopes and dreams, only to help freeze my back to the cold lonesome street when the winter comes, which I grew to accustom on how to peel my skin up and off that dispicale excuse of my only bed, so I may ensue the hysteria just to not be sick, any little trick or scheme to feed the disease until my body decides it’s defied death from the posion flowing in and out of my veins all day and once again makes that concrete bed I claim not so bad, my mom wouldn’t even recognize me if she was here and I’m not so sad, I wouldn’t even want a long lost fear weather friend to, let alone the woman I was raised by for Fetanyl put all those memories and feelings for her on standby, maybe one day I’ll once again regain the brains I had to help refrain from giving in and coping with this pain with another fix for I’m so lost my sorrows could be melted down like black tar so strong the world could get high off my depression
Written by Anthonydevol
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Hey Ms Broomie...
:)
That is an excellent question..
It's whatever you want to do...
I have reserved the right
to modify the amount, pertaining
to the crypto clause, as I
deem correct, based upon the
effort I see, in the production of the author's book...
I want to see a person go beyond themselves...
Like I am about to do...
I want to see motherfuckers drive themselves beyond insanity...
I want to see writers pour gasoline
on themselves and light themselves on fire...
No excuses.
Be gruff and relentless with one's self...
To do what you want to do...
Or die trying...
Also... A message to someone...
"I thought you wanted to write with me... Where are you now?" - Cipher_O
:)
That is an excellent question..
It's whatever you want to do...
I have reserved the right
to modify the amount, pertaining
to the crypto clause, as I
deem correct, based upon the
effort I see, in the production of the author's book...
I want to see a person go beyond themselves...
Like I am about to do...
I want to see motherfuckers drive themselves beyond insanity...
I want to see writers pour gasoline
on themselves and light themselves on fire...
No excuses.
Be gruff and relentless with one's self...
To do what you want to do...
Or die trying...
Also... A message to someone...
"I thought you wanted to write with me... Where are you now?" - Cipher_O
Cyclical
It all comes round again.
Now observed through the rearview mirror,
the old year replays in glorious technicolour:
Memories, activities, laughter and love
captured in photos and film and words,
just like the round-up news report entitled:
'2022's Biggest Stories... in 74 seconds'
which I watched this morning, January 1st.
It's funny how I look upon the old with affection
and only remember the good parts.
By contrast, the new year has always daunted me
with its blank, white diary pages
and wintery days stretching bleakly ahead.
I sense the tug of the old and the familiar
and feel unwilling to walk into the cold.
I know that some time soon,
I'll be able to look back on this day, this week
and see it filled with colour too.
I think I know what I must do:
keep moving forward, embrace the new—
face it head-on until
it no longer holds such fear.
Now observed through the rearview mirror,
the old year replays in glorious technicolour:
Memories, activities, laughter and love
captured in photos and film and words,
just like the round-up news report entitled:
'2022's Biggest Stories... in 74 seconds'
which I watched this morning, January 1st.
It's funny how I look upon the old with affection
and only remember the good parts.
By contrast, the new year has always daunted me
with its blank, white diary pages
and wintery days stretching bleakly ahead.
I sense the tug of the old and the familiar
and feel unwilling to walk into the cold.
I know that some time soon,
I'll be able to look back on this day, this week
and see it filled with colour too.
I think I know what I must do:
keep moving forward, embrace the new—
face it head-on until
it no longer holds such fear.
Written by Wafflenose
(Ellie)
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A New Year's poem to get me in the mood. Every time I write, I think it will be my last one!
Kind of annoyed that I have my second book 65% done really. It would have been good to have used that one, but I'll have to write a third one now!!
Kind of annoyed that I have my second book 65% done really. It would have been good to have used that one, but I'll have to write a third one now!!
I really like the vibrancy of this piece...
All content for the book side of this competition are to be produced, fresh,
original, in the year two thousand twenty three...
From this point on...
We must start writing our books.
I am going to...
Start some pieces...
Get an indication of where I am right now...
Get my direction...
I have been wanting to write stuff about Empowerment...
Stuff people can read and get hyped off of...
To do what they do...
Hopefully it has an aspect of menace...
:)))
The book I write I am going to submit to competitions...
I think all participants in this competition should do likewise...
All content for the book side of this competition are to be produced, fresh,
original, in the year two thousand twenty three...
From this point on...
We must start writing our books.
I am going to...
Start some pieces...
Get an indication of where I am right now...
Get my direction...
I have been wanting to write stuff about Empowerment...
Stuff people can read and get hyped off of...
To do what they do...
Hopefully it has an aspect of menace...
:)))
The book I write I am going to submit to competitions...
I think all participants in this competition should do likewise...
Self Portrait with cat and fishtank
I drink so much from myself that I can't
understand who is sweat or who is fluid.
So I'm running away
like a cry that rains
through the streets, sad silent drops.
I exorcise myself from my intimate
in molten love,
oscillating solid and liquid in a ballet,
removed my vertebrae
with all feeling lost
in sweet sublimated vapours.
faded,
every second is alien to me,
but while I spread
in this mess,
I try to contain the torment
of discreet calm
and regain life in breath.
the cats sometimes
seem to be sipping
the smell of the sun in the air
their whiskers like tentacles
groping the air
ears like radars
listening in the air
the remains of reverberatory sounds
lost brown papers
In the temple of terminal time.
I look like a clone of myself
I look like a clown on the shelf
I look like a crown
In a collection of non-shells.
connoisseur of the universe
and listener of silence
vision of the invisible
voice of the unspeakable.
water in the sky
water on the floor
And the fish swims
breaststroke
backstroke
the fish swims
and nothing gives the fish
the right to water.
PAR
Written by PAR
(PAULO ACACIO RAMOS)
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