Poetry competition CLOSED 22nd August 2023 2:51pm
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Your take on the theme of melancholy

poet Anonymous

†Sonnet to Self No. 1

 † † † † † †

1 To make a necklace, use my whitest teeth,
2 To hold your kukri, take my lower jaw,
3 My bitter veins can form the finest wreath,
4 To carve an ulna flute just bring your saw.
5 And catch your dreams with locks of braided hair,
6 And burn them quickly under moonlit night,
7 But please just leave my larynx resting there,
8 Its final words may want to make this right.
9 l watch corrosive tears dilute my cheeks,
10 The crimson paint of life is streaming down,
11Iím just a shapeless shadow counting weeks,
12 The water floats the lungs that need to drown.
13 But once I claim the pieces lost and sold,
14 I swear to weld them back with finest gold.
poet Anonymous


A silent melody is my constant allure
The anchor that keeps me grounded in reality
For better or worse, I continue to endure
And dream of the day my soul is set free.

My shackles will at last unlock
All my burdens will evaporate
I venture to the harbor where my ship is docked
The salty air lifts off this heavy weight.

Do you know what it means to be alone?
Whether by choice or not; too late to turn back the clock
Itís a weary emptiness that seeps into your bones
For better or worse; I shall always endure.
poet Anonymous

Guilty Bystander

Have I lost my destination for the wrong race?
Whether purposed of true destiny or a twisted work of fate

Whether the chosen or the choosing
Whoís the denier, whoís the rejected
I began in confidence but along the way I defected

Working my way towards living when today finances the empty promise of tomorrow
Trying to budget for my blessings against the weight of underlying sorrow

For loss and all Iíve yet to gain
For debts and the gravity of all of my self instigated pain

Can I stop and write the roses?
When Iím a guilty bystander caught in the crossfire of an unstable soul
For all the questions I canít answer finding refuge in faith for all the peace the war has stole

If the struggle is real is the calm but an illusion
While storm clouds lurk and circle like vultures over head
Diagnosing the symptoms of the illness
Heartsick yet well said

Thirsty for approval baited on the hook of skin deep affection
Hook line and filet, dying in the tomb of dead confession

When thereís nothing left to say what I do speaks for itself
Longing for redemption while playing chicken with hell

Can I stop and write the roses till Iím perfumed of something worth while
Weighed on the scales of money to fake success
Until true value is back in styleÖ
poet Anonymous

Waltz in Amber & Blue

Amber light dances across rusty rooftops.
Flirting with the darkness; the whole morning stops.
Taking a momentís comfort in the silence,
Glowing beams swell to swallow the blackness.
Seeds of daylight thoughts dawn and deepen
Performing waltz around my mind.
Keeping rhythm in threes; progress steepens.
Carefully averting reason, or roots,
or tales intertwined.
Twirling by oceans unexplored, thereís pause.
Painted toe dips into pale water blue.  
Depth undisclosed, bravery paddles to the middle.  
Sun-dried skin will reveal the truth,
a burgeoning nostalgia niggles.
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