Poetry competition CLOSED 30th December 2013 11:47pm
WINNER
Page_Writer (Mad Girl)
Page_Writer (Mad Girl)
RUNNERS-UP:
tommielynn
and LoveMinusZero
Blocked
Writers Block
I tried to walk around the
block, wound up rotting
in my chair.
I tried to dig below the
block, got trapped beneath
without a prayer.
I tried to climb above the
block, where air’s too
thin to breathe.
I shut my eyes and
fell asleep, woke up
later writing dreams.
I tried to walk around the
block, wound up rotting
in my chair.
I tried to dig below the
block, got trapped beneath
without a prayer.
I tried to climb above the
block, where air’s too
thin to breathe.
I shut my eyes and
fell asleep, woke up
later writing dreams.
no pen for a week now
one week now
since I’ve picked up a pen
yes I realize
we use computers now and
so do I
therefore please allow
that second line
to pass as “just an expression”
no I’ve been picking up
shovels instead
axe picks and hammers
hauling buckets of topsoil
on my shoulder and
not sure if I’d survive five
yards of dirt
two-hundred and seventy
five-gallon buckets
fifty-four buckets per man
on a five-man team and
we sweat non-stop
back-and-forth again and again
only stopping to piss or drink
dreaming of lunch and
break times if lucky
my muscles burn hotter
than the sun which we’re
lucky to have this time of year
it hangs high over the ocean
as we cling to the steep hillside
we can see the mountains
some islands
giant ships and tug boats
passing their time
as we are put plants in the ground
the earth under our
fingernails
my first-day blistered hands
concealed by
new work gloves
muscle spasms and allergies
I can’t speak
for the other men but
I feel a sense of conflict with
my bittersweet experience of
making money
no pen for a week now
a paying gig
physically challenging and
miserably unpleasant
yet this view that can only be
described as heaven
what did I do to deserve
eye-candy as breathtaking
as the work I’m doing
this must be
what it’s like to have everything
no pen for a week now but
I’ve written my soul into the ground
sweat and bled upon its face
watching the earth crumble
during its process of change
I’ve seen the colors of progress
now I grip my pen
grateful for the opportunity
to work and earn
needs met and body stronger
miraculously able still
to jot these words
some which turn up in my mind
when I can’t write them down
sliding my sweaty palm
across my forehead
the words dripping and falling
into the sand
sacrificed for food and shelter
body too paralyzed by
fatigue when it’s time
to go home
Advil and shower
dinner while mindlessly
watching the television
the snooze button
on the horizon and yet
another week with no pen
it’s coming
one week now
since I’ve picked up a pen
yes I realize
we use computers now and
so do I
therefore please allow
that second line
to pass as “just an expression”
no I’ve been picking up
shovels instead
axe picks and hammers
hauling buckets of topsoil
on my shoulder and
not sure if I’d survive five
yards of dirt
two-hundred and seventy
five-gallon buckets
fifty-four buckets per man
on a five-man team and
we sweat non-stop
back-and-forth again and again
only stopping to piss or drink
dreaming of lunch and
break times if lucky
my muscles burn hotter
than the sun which we’re
lucky to have this time of year
it hangs high over the ocean
as we cling to the steep hillside
we can see the mountains
some islands
giant ships and tug boats
passing their time
as we are put plants in the ground
the earth under our
fingernails
my first-day blistered hands
concealed by
new work gloves
muscle spasms and allergies
I can’t speak
for the other men but
I feel a sense of conflict with
my bittersweet experience of
making money
no pen for a week now
a paying gig
physically challenging and
miserably unpleasant
yet this view that can only be
described as heaven
what did I do to deserve
eye-candy as breathtaking
as the work I’m doing
this must be
what it’s like to have everything
no pen for a week now but
I’ve written my soul into the ground
sweat and bled upon its face
watching the earth crumble
during its process of change
I’ve seen the colors of progress
now I grip my pen
grateful for the opportunity
to work and earn
needs met and body stronger
miraculously able still
to jot these words
some which turn up in my mind
when I can’t write them down
sliding my sweaty palm
across my forehead
the words dripping and falling
into the sand
sacrificed for food and shelter
body too paralyzed by
fatigue when it’s time
to go home
Advil and shower
dinner while mindlessly
watching the television
the snooze button
on the horizon and yet
another week with no pen
it’s coming
Anonymous
Writers Holiday
The sun rose and set
the moon expanded
and depleted
but, no words came to mind
no idea tapped on my brain
no wrong begged to be righted
in a write
no nostalgia triggered a memory
for a memoir
no old scar begged explanation
in prose for the cons
not for days
it felt great
like a mental vacation
a long overdue sedation
until a strange wave of nostalgia
captured my soul and I longed for the days
when my pen wrote away the aches
the pains acquired or remembered
even those anticipated or pondered
hypothetically or avoided deliberately
I missed poetry
and wrote a poem about it
then read it
to grasp what it all meant to me
and the cycle began again
The sun rose and set
the moon expanded
and depleted
but, no words came to mind
no idea tapped on my brain
no wrong begged to be righted
in a write
no nostalgia triggered a memory
for a memoir
no old scar begged explanation
in prose for the cons
not for days
it felt great
like a mental vacation
a long overdue sedation
until a strange wave of nostalgia
captured my soul and I longed for the days
when my pen wrote away the aches
the pains acquired or remembered
even those anticipated or pondered
hypothetically or avoided deliberately
I missed poetry
and wrote a poem about it
then read it
to grasp what it all meant to me
and the cycle began again
Anonymous
sure thing, Kitty 
thank you
thank you
Killing Creativity
Therapy kills the writer’s spirit
It sucks at our souls
yanking at our
stories
feelings
minds
We give it freely
to save our lives
fending off the reaper
yet it empties us inside
stretching the sanity
of the writer within
leaving our brains cleared
bodies starved
spirits incomplete
We try to force
what the professionals
have raped away
leaving us with nothing but
a free verse poem
that I didn’t want to write
and you didn’t care to read.
Therapy kills the writer’s spirit
It sucks at our souls
yanking at our
stories
feelings
minds
We give it freely
to save our lives
fending off the reaper
yet it empties us inside
stretching the sanity
of the writer within
leaving our brains cleared
bodies starved
spirits incomplete
We try to force
what the professionals
have raped away
leaving us with nothing but
a free verse poem
that I didn’t want to write
and you didn’t care to read.
Full of Poems
Locked inside of her was inspiration
She could peer at it through the hole
Dipping her quill in trying to release it
Turning to the left wouldn't work
Turning to the right wouldn't work
She talked in whispers to it
"Come on out and let me use you,
I see you there waiting to be used."
Inspiration just sat there and stared
back at her with it's words in bold font
Her periwinkle eye blinking on the
other side of the brass lock
She picks up her peacock feather
Enters the lock and it turns with a click
Rainbows of words rush through her
Her hand connects with the cardstock
She is full of poems
Locked inside of her was inspiration
She could peer at it through the hole
Dipping her quill in trying to release it
Turning to the left wouldn't work
Turning to the right wouldn't work
She talked in whispers to it
"Come on out and let me use you,
I see you there waiting to be used."
Inspiration just sat there and stared
back at her with it's words in bold font
Her periwinkle eye blinking on the
other side of the brass lock
She picks up her peacock feather
Enters the lock and it turns with a click
Rainbows of words rush through her
Her hand connects with the cardstock
She is full of poems
The Death of the Writer
Here lies the Writer,
she died alone in vain.
With stories all broken
and characters gone a stray.
Here lies the Writer,
broken pens in her wrists.
She was ignored by those she cared about.
Their uncaring actions gave the knife on final twist.
Here lies the Writer,
no poison is the blame for her great fall.
She wanted to please everyone,
but ended up disappointing them all.
Here lies the Writer,
her lover sits alone
placing a red rose on a placid stone.
Here lies the Writer,
her mother cries silently for her sunshine that went out, like a candle's glow.
Leaving broken hearts behind, and a dark and empty place once called home.
Here lies the Writer,
her son too young to know the person his mother was meant to be.
Now she is empty, broken and alone-- The woman that he will grow up the see. . . She is not the Writer.
That girl is now me.
So here lies the Writer,
as we lay her to rest.
Lover, Mother, Son know this and only this.
This late Writer,
that gave up--
that was betrayed--
that loved & lost--
that now sleeps in eternal rest, know this.
That lonely Writer, she did her best.
So blow out the candles,
and place a flower on the stone.
Because the Writer is gone
and now it is only me in here.
By myself, all alone.
The place that smelled of ink
and characters in the shadows would hide.
Now there is only darkness, fear and pain.
Left to bargain in this vicious game.
Because the Writer is dead.
There is only me left,
trapped inside of that great Writer's head.
I am not here, or there.
I am in between.
I speak in third person,
because I am the Writer
and she is after all, me.
Here lies the Writer,
she died alone in vain.
With stories all broken
and characters gone a stray.
Here lies the Writer,
broken pens in her wrists.
She was ignored by those she cared about.
Their uncaring actions gave the knife on final twist.
Here lies the Writer,
no poison is the blame for her great fall.
She wanted to please everyone,
but ended up disappointing them all.
Here lies the Writer,
her lover sits alone
placing a red rose on a placid stone.
Here lies the Writer,
her mother cries silently for her sunshine that went out, like a candle's glow.
Leaving broken hearts behind, and a dark and empty place once called home.
Here lies the Writer,
her son too young to know the person his mother was meant to be.
Now she is empty, broken and alone-- The woman that he will grow up the see. . . She is not the Writer.
That girl is now me.
So here lies the Writer,
as we lay her to rest.
Lover, Mother, Son know this and only this.
This late Writer,
that gave up--
that was betrayed--
that loved & lost--
that now sleeps in eternal rest, know this.
That lonely Writer, she did her best.
So blow out the candles,
and place a flower on the stone.
Because the Writer is gone
and now it is only me in here.
By myself, all alone.
The place that smelled of ink
and characters in the shadows would hide.
Now there is only darkness, fear and pain.
Left to bargain in this vicious game.
Because the Writer is dead.
There is only me left,
trapped inside of that great Writer's head.
I am not here, or there.
I am in between.
I speak in third person,
because I am the Writer
and she is after all, me.
Writer's Block
Trapped in a mire of stagnant imagination
and re-hashed cliches,
I desperately try to unbind myself,
to no avail.
My pen hovers, heart achingly useless,
above the empty yearning paper,
which will remain so;
my failure.
A multitude of gibbering thoughts,
each more ineffectual than the last,
clamor for undue attention,
clouding my mind.
My hand trembles in sympathetic recognition
of the red hot fear in my heart,
that the poetic ability has left me
never to return.
The thought brings a unique terror to my breast,
tears blind me, for what am I to do
if not pen line and verse,
if I'm not a writer?
As gently as I could, I squeezed hard.
The sweat dripped slowly from my face.
My insides burned and I felt charred.
A rush of relief, it's holy grace!
The pen fell out from my bum,
a dark chilli of what looked like chum.
I can now write, I've got my pen.
My poop is over... Let's begin!
The sweat dripped slowly from my face.
My insides burned and I felt charred.
A rush of relief, it's holy grace!
The pen fell out from my bum,
a dark chilli of what looked like chum.
I can now write, I've got my pen.
My poop is over... Let's begin!
Anonymous
"Dis is the truth---I'm serious 'bout wryters block.
What happens when your mind say's f--k you**
"F--k 'im if he kan't take a joke!" That's what my mind say's when itz holdin' back. It goes blank sometimes. It plays tricks on me. I don't let it bug me. I don't fret. I get even. I look around the room. If I see a bug. I wryte about a bug. If I see a rug. I wryte about a rug. I wryte about bugs in rugs. Praise google Christ!!!! I find good shit on google tew. It's fu---n' inspirational. So I really don't mind my mind sayin' rude shit. I don't mind it when my mind tells me to f--k off. That's when I come up with some of my best poitree. Youse others have better minds than mine. Youse minds must really be bad motherf--kers. I mean like super duper mean minds. Youse all wryte better poitree than me. I don't mind bug poitree. Do you????????????????
rM
** I promised Henry to tone down F bombs!!! He's like my mother!!!! She hates 'em tew!
What happens when your mind say's f--k you**
"F--k 'im if he kan't take a joke!" That's what my mind say's when itz holdin' back. It goes blank sometimes. It plays tricks on me. I don't let it bug me. I don't fret. I get even. I look around the room. If I see a bug. I wryte about a bug. If I see a rug. I wryte about a rug. I wryte about bugs in rugs. Praise google Christ!!!! I find good shit on google tew. It's fu---n' inspirational. So I really don't mind my mind sayin' rude shit. I don't mind it when my mind tells me to f--k off. That's when I come up with some of my best poitree. Youse others have better minds than mine. Youse minds must really be bad motherf--kers. I mean like super duper mean minds. Youse all wryte better poitree than me. I don't mind bug poitree. Do you????????????????
rM
** I promised Henry to tone down F bombs!!! He's like my mother!!!! She hates 'em tew!
Writers Block...
On a quest to conquer the darkest of hearts
behind secret doors , down pathways of sorrow....
"tink"
My pen hit the ground
with a "tinkering' sound, but my eyes could not follow.
I kneel down to the crevice where my hands cant reach.
My pen must have rolled towards the dusty doom.
Impatiently, now, I spring up and see
...stars...
That's just what I need.
A droplet of sweat begins to form on my brow.
I need this pen to sort me out!
If I may not hold it , my thoughts soon will betray,
absent of subject another long day.
"Pen!" Come to me , as I've tried to find it.
It has joined with it's friend, named the "block", I've decided.
Closing my eyes, I can barely imagine,
my pen, not connected to me.
It is a moment of blankness, that signals a message
of rest, I protest, I don't need.
On a quest to conquer the darkest of hearts
behind secret doors , down pathways of sorrow....
"tink"
My pen hit the ground
with a "tinkering' sound, but my eyes could not follow.
I kneel down to the crevice where my hands cant reach.
My pen must have rolled towards the dusty doom.
Impatiently, now, I spring up and see
...stars...
That's just what I need.
A droplet of sweat begins to form on my brow.
I need this pen to sort me out!
If I may not hold it , my thoughts soon will betray,
absent of subject another long day.
"Pen!" Come to me , as I've tried to find it.
It has joined with it's friend, named the "block", I've decided.
Closing my eyes, I can barely imagine,
my pen, not connected to me.
It is a moment of blankness, that signals a message
of rest, I protest, I don't need.
