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Submitted on
March 15
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Hey, y'all! So, it's about time I host another contest. :) I've always had really nice outcomes, so I'm hoping I'll have just as good of a response. Well, I'll get to it.

Prompts (can be used in any media, taken in any interpretation):

:bulletgreen: 100 pounds of shredded paper* 
:bulletgreen: Weeds
:bulletgreen: we can only hurt ourselves
:bulletgreen: poetry is a dirty word 

PICK ONE. You are allowed to use more than one prompt if you wish, but you do not have to incorporate any more than just one. 

I have only 95 points, so this isn't exactly riddled with high prizes. ^^' Actually, if someone could direct me to a contest where I could gain some more points, that'd be awesome!

:bulletblue: First place: 50 points, 1 llama badge, 10 favs from me, 2 well-thought-out comments

:bulletred: Second place: 30 points, 1 llama badge, 10 favs from me, 1 well-thought-out comment

:bulletyellow: Third place: 20 points, 1 llama badge, 10 favs from me 

:bulletpurple: The amazing SilverInkblot has donated some of her beautiful bookmarks as prizes. :) (Smile) Check out her lovely bookmarks and art!

When you finish an entry, just comment on my profile or this journal that you did it. A link to the deviation would be nice, although it's not required. :) You can also note me if that's more comfortable for you.

Contest begins: 3/15/14
Contest ends: 4/15/14

--
ENTRIES:


Dirty WordDirty Word
24-03-14
Don't tell me you're a poet;
that you fill pages with lies and metaphors
jutting out from every-which angle.
I don't care for lies
no matter what wrapping they come in.
I don't care for sonnets declaring love;
love is a word heard often
and meaning little.
Don't give me copious words in rhyme
where three words, in plain, will do.
Don't tell me you're a poet;
that you twist emotions and thoughts
like a master spinner at a spindle.
I care not to be told what to feel.
No matter how close our feelings are
they will never match exactly.
I don't care for Haiku depicting nature
when nature can be self-experienced.
Your frothy depiction of snow
is of less importance than what I feel standing in it.
Your thoughts on Autumn worth less
than what it feels like to collapse
into a pile of orange, gold and red.
Don't tell me you're a poet.
I care only for my own experience.


Logically DirtyA carpet
Is not dirty,
Not until mud
Is tracked
Onto the carpet:
Now the dirt of the mud
Has been transferred to the carpet -
By this logic,
A poem can be made dirty
By a single word placed within;
A stretch of
Pavement is clean,
But if a single slab
Is dirtied, then the
Whole of the pavement
has been dirtied -
Just like the pavement,
A single poem can turn
Poetry to a dirt-ridden state;
The meaning of various words,
Are dirty -
This in turn has made the
Words... dirty -
An abstract string of logic
Can form a single point:
Poetry is a dirty word.


i can only hurt myselfbecause it is me who reads
too much into your gestures
and words; it is a lie
when they say that a heart
can be taken or stolen
or held by a lover
my heart only sits quiet
in my chest and thumps
uneasily,
waiting not for you
to come claim it
but for me
to look down at scared
fingers and feel
inadequate, ashamed
uncertain
of things i know are true
and i hate that
you have the power
to make me hurt myself
when i already do such a good
job on my own


Paper Cage of Fear100 pounds of shredded paper
And I was their maker
100 days gone by
Every one was a lie
100 dreams torn
All I can do is mourn
As each page was torn apart
The cage fell from my heart
All that was left of me
From that time, all I can see
Is 100 pounds of shredded paper
And I alone am their maker
Each word inked upon the page
Strengthened a bar on the cage
Each paper added the weight
That sealed shut my fate
I didn't realise what I had done
Until it seemed too late
I could barely see the sun
In this place filled with hate
You came to me with the brightest light
And taught me just how to fight
I could shred all this fear
With your helping hand near
Now I look all around me
And everywhere I see
Is 100 pounds of shredded paper
And I was their maker
But now I can finally be
Just what I wanted, free


Shredded paperI wake up on the floor again
With a hundred pounds of shredded paper
Scattered all around me
Covered in poems no one will hear...
Drawings of circles
Yet we stand in rows
Poetry's abstract, right?
It is, I suppose
Pain is just a process
That we go through to make
A hundred pounds of shredded paper,
Shredded poems, in our wake
Drawings of squares
So linear and clean
Poetry is random words
With some meaning in between
The ceilings always caving in
The rain is always clear
Poetry can make a world
But I don't like being here
Drawings of triangles
Each point as sharp as a knife
Is a hundred pounds of shredded paper,
All I have done with my life?
Just rhymes and lamentations
And we'll make the whole world cry
Just writing stories for ourselves
So others can ask why
Drawings of my heart
Med-school textbook style
THE HEART IS JUST AN ORGAN
Poetry is a liar
I touch
A hundred pounds of shredded paper
Scattered all around me
Covered in shapes and stories and LIES
That someday-
Everyone will see..


Weed KingWalking through the gray and silver garden
With cold trees rising above each cloud
And the uncountable little blades of grass
Or the occasional flower, striking and loud
But for every petal of hope, eternal and strong
There is an invader borne of the same shade
Borne of the same mask, wrought of greed
Sitting on a throne of death with bloodsoaked blade
O parasite king
O lord of the garden gray
O weed almighty
Why so many must you slay?
Walking through the gray and silver garden
With cold trees, withered and gone
And the uncountable little graves
Or the occasional flower, never to see dawn
But for every petal of hope, however small
There is a cell holding a dangling rope
Borne of a different mask, wrought of courage
Sitting on a stone floor with dull blade of hope
O hero king
O lord of the rebels we
O hope almighty
Why are we not yet free?
Walking through the gray and silver garden
With cold trees, afraid for false joy
And the uncountable betrayed
Or the occasional flower they could not


Sting.I tried to pull
the weeds from my heart
today, but the thistles only
cut my hands; I lost myself
in the sting.  Perhaps to bleed
is all we can hope for;
perhaps we may only hurt
ourselves.

--
*You'll see this poem coming from me in the following months. 
  • Mood: Amused
  • Listening to: Funny internet videos
  • Drinking: Nothing (I really need to drink more)
Add a Comment:
 
:iconsaltwaterlungs:
saltwaterlungs Featured By Owner Apr 18, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Ugh, I missed the deadline by three days! This sucks :(
Reply
:iconinsomniaplague:
insomniaplague Featured By Owner Apr 18, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
I haven't announced the winners yet, so if you enter right now, I can still add you. :)
Reply
:iconsaltwaterlungs:
saltwaterlungs Featured By Owner Apr 18, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
YES is there a minimum word requirement (mine's six words ;P)
Reply
:iconinsomniaplague:
insomniaplague Featured By Owner Apr 18, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Nope. :) Six-words are fine.
Reply
:iconkage-yami:
Kage-Yami Featured By Owner Apr 14, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Ooh, I just randomly checked when the contests I'm in are ending, and this one ends today/tomorrow! :D
Reply
:iconnaktarra:
Naktarra Featured By Owner Apr 9, 2014   Writer
I will be participating. 
Reply
:iconinsomniaplague:
insomniaplague Featured By Owner Apr 12, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
I'll be looking forward to your entry! :)
Reply
:iconnaktarra:
Naktarra Featured By Owner Apr 13, 2014   Writer
Reply
:iconchasingcloudbursts:
chasingcloudbursts Featured By Owner Apr 7, 2014  Student General Artist
Awesome contest. Here's my entry: fav.me/d7di8nm.
Reply
:iconhopeburnsblue:
hopeburnsblue Featured By Owner Apr 6, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist

Neat contest! You can find my entry here: fav.me/d7db27f

Reply
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