The Informal Poetry Contest (Starting 2nd October)

Hey guys! It's my first time hosting a thing like this, so let's get down to the rules.

-You must post in the thread at least once every three days with a piece (that is, within three days after your last post). It doesn't matter how good or bad, you simply have to post. If you don't, however, you will drop out. Last person standing is the winner.

-Try not to lose. If you drop out, you'll have to hand over a 100 of your precious points to whoever is left at the end.

-If you want to participate, PM me before the contest starts. The list of people participating right now is down there.

-The contest is starting on the 2nd of October. Be sure and post a poem before the 3rd, or you're ouuut.


People still in the contest:
-Idraax

People out of the contest
-Dreamwalker
-CelticaNoir
-ShinobiInfinity
-Qaralynn

And that's it!

Under the Weather

Here in the west the dust is as common as ants,
Whenever it sweeps over our home it's like a hot breath,
from the devil's own lungs,

It's killing everything,
Even my favorite willow tree has succumbed to it's hate,
Now it's taking my mother away,

She says she's just under the weather,
but I know for a fact that she has dust pneumonia,
the dust finds its way into everything,

I'm worried now,
before when I was worried,
I could walk around the pond in circles,

There was a little over path,
it wound around a little oval mirror,
now its a sand dune,

The willow tree would hug me with it's draping branches,
but now it looks like a lightning bolt from the ground,
its leaves and branches where taken away by the dust,

Ashes to ashes-dust to dust,
what is that supposed to mean?
Is it some cruel joke? Everything is dust,
Maybe some ashes would change it up,

My dad is already planning her funeral,
I say to wait, just a few more days to see,
he says it's no use, ashes to ashes,

He always leaves out the dust to dust,
But I hear it in my head,
so does it make a difference?

The morning after she passed,
I felt that the sun shouldn't have risen,
and the birds should sing more mournfully,

Wear your mourning clothes sun,
my mother is dead,
lament her birds,

Dust to Dust

Here, have a limericky thing!

If wishes were fishes
and I am a fish,
why can't I grant
my own wish?

haihai! Something I wrote a little while ago XD
and draax and shino--nice poems!!


Don't write your name down on my heart,
Because I will claw it out and destroy every little piece of it.

Don't even try to steal it,
Because I will hunt you down and surround you with bars.

Don't try hanging your picture on my heart's memory wall,
Because I will tear it down and build a new one.

Don't you dare send Cupid with his poisonous arrows,
Because I will take him down and find real ones.

Don't make me fall in love with you,
Because I will make you regret it.

A silly impromptu thing.

Work it up,
Work it down,
Work it all the way,
Till you're tired and dumb,

A pity it is,
When you're a mess,
But when they ask of you,
Get it done.

That's how it works,
The gears and bolts and
The oil of it all,
So get out there and do your work!

To live

brush away thoughts on the back of our fingertips.
each unassailable moment like the first, like the last.
we drink up the sound in a flourish of delight --
like a sapling moistening it’s frigid roots in warm
succulent water, tempered by pleasure,
when dew of the morrow cannot suffice,
and to live, perchance to know such a flutter
of a heart whose seen only joy in each pump.
yet still a thump, a constant steady thump
that strives for cause though tires of chasing
what has already been achieved.

Well here's my poem for the day. I might write something based on unity day later in the evening though.

Some days you don't know what you want to write,
but you want to anyway.
What do you do?

Some days you feel like everything you write is bad,
but you keep at it anyway.
Why?

What makes us want to write?
What makes us want to work towards that spark that we often feel is unattainable?
Why do we force ourselves to keep at it even when we want to quit?
Why, why, why?

Because it's something that we feel we have to do.
Sometimes we're just so full of words,
that if we don't
write them,
we feel like we're going to burst
with the effort of holding them in.

We keep hoping that we'll attain that spark someday,
make everyone else feel like we feel
and if-when-we do
it's the best feeling in the world.

(I'm going through a very Spice and Wolf mode, so this is in honour of Horo from the series, probably from Lawrence's POV. She's in my avvie, by the way. )

What do you consider a wolf?
I consider it as being fond of apples
Tempting red ones, as though they were
Dyed with the color of freshest blood.

What is a goddess?
Is she like a human woman?
Does she use words that resemble
The claws of a mother tiger?

Who are you, really?
Why do you follow me so?
I don't know whether I should care
Or whether I should just live and let live.

(P.S. I officially suck.)

Pine Tree Haiku

Elegant pine trees
Sway in the calm winter wind,
they are calm and quiet

Longer poem for you all!

Walk through the market,
smelling the spices in the air.
Turmeric, mustard, myrrh.
They smell like home.
Turn a corner
and walk through an alleyway.
Follow the music,
that twists through the air.
Stop in front of a fakir
and his large, woven basket.
Wait, listen and watch.

Hypnotizing, 
the snake sways.
The music spirals up,
through the body and into the mind.
Curling, coiling, rising up,
out of the basket.
Stretching towards the sun,
the centuries old dance.
The one shown to small children
and to amuse the royals of 
ages past.

The music spirals towards its closure.
Down, down, down,
the snake descends,
coiling back upon itself
into the basket.
Smile and feel yourself grow old again.
The childlike wonder tucked in,
saved for another day.
Drop some coins in the basket and turn away.
Walking away from the place that feels like home.

aaaaaaaaah am I too late? OO


The same turns,
The same claw piercing my heart.
It makes me realize I've been here before.

The same restless feeling,
The same biting cuts.
I don't want to go down this road anymore.

The same hopeless tears,
The same confusing fears.
I'm chained once again to my own misery.

The same selfhating thoughts,
The same dead end.
All this brings is selfdestruction.

I should have never came here.

From my weird week.

This is who I am.

I am a person who is socially awkward.
The one always alone in the room.
I am the person who doesn't have
anything in common with anyone else.

I am a person who pisses people off.
The one who burns bridges; the fire so hot
that nothing can be salvaged.

This is who I am.

I am a person that will stick with you,
even if it's to the bitter end.
The one whom everyone thinks
that there's something wrong with.

I am a person who writes from the heart.
The one who pours their entire soul into
works that they may never show the world.

This is who I am.
This is the person who I have become
and I accept that.

The last of my weird week and the second to last of my stock of poems.

There are a million little things wrong with me
and there are a billion little things wrong with you.
It's ok, because there are a trillion little things wrong with the world.

That’s ok too.

Everyone has flaws. They may be on the outside,
but mostly they're on the inside.
It's ok; it's only natural.

I know you feel alone now,
I do too. Don't worry so much,
it'll get better.

The world's just like that,
lonely scary and cruel..
It's also bright, hopeful and friendly.

It'll be alright.

Whether you know it or not,
we're here and hoping

for you.

And this is the last of my stock of poems. Now I have to go write some.

Wander the empty spaces
and listen to the quietness of the hour.
Watch the lounge empty out,
but resist the urge to sleep-
You have work to do.

Twisting, turning and swirling
You are my mind entombed
In a freak of insanity you are
Relentlessly cruel, forever judging.

Who am I, you say, and
You put that question to me,
Who is you personified,
And I have no answer for you.

Threads of my mind
Join together to form
A complete being, separate
From my own consciousness.

What is consciousness?
Thoughts, ideas, feelings?
Or is it just being you?
Or is it just another concept that
Has no meaning to it?