Contest, Contest! :D

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):

100 pounds of shredded paper* 
Weeds
we can only hurt ourselves
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!

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

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

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

The amazing SilverInkblot has donated some of her beautiful bookmarks as prizes.  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:

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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

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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.