Here I shall mostly be posting some poetry.
In addition, we shall be posting some of YOUR poems.
Go on, have a go, you never know.
To enter in this light hearted bit of fun, all you have to do is fill in the Poetry Competition form with your name or twitter name, Email and of course your poem.
Once it has been vetted for gratuitous expletives and/or content deemed to be inappropriate I will probably publish it anyway.However your entry may or may not be shown on this web site.Good luck.
Here are some of your best, drawn from hundreds of entries. More to follow.
the shouted words,
angry man's faces
and tight strict voices
the terror of the little girl who cannot answer back
who expects and knows she is bad,
unworthy, stupid, unnecessary.
i hate myself for hating myself
hate the waiting for the punishment and so on and on it goes ...
round and round the mulberry bush
I'm unstrung, unsung,
un-fun worry breeds worry and grows.
i cannot escape the words,
the thoughts go round and round my head
like a macabre merry go round
i worry, i fret, i hate, i cry, i talk out loud
i can't stop
i can't STOP
that dig and poke and hurt
hurt the hurt.
the teeth that bite.
prepare for life.
the last twist of the knife.
There was a young lady from Kent,
Who left a piss trail wherever she went.
Strapped a mop to her arse,
Like a Benny Hill Farce,
And gave up all fluids for Lent.
When I look in your eyes I can’t see your soul
You are not here, just a body grown old
Bereft from your loss you decided to leave
You couldn’t stay, you couldn’t grieve.
Still trapped by your genes your heart beats in time
You don’t deserve this,you committed no crime
Now stuck in a room,can’t call this a life
Not needed as mother,no longer a wife
Please sleep forever, please go in peace
Your life has been precious,now find some release.
There’s a path I walk,
a disused line,
with fences either side it turns slowly,
then runs straight and enclosed through fields,
past houses made remote by intervening wire.
A year ago, just here,
where the dead bridge crosses,
I stood and cried,
and heard in the streaming rain
the clock’s slow sobs of seconds,
disposed like skin,
It rained as much today,
tried hard to snow,
and I walked the path again,
under the bridge,
to the place where you can watch the trains,
feel the vibration in your sodden shoes of a heavy line,
meant for steel or stone,
I love his face.
His ears reddening, his cheeks reddening,
when he sees (knows) he has done something wrong.
I love his face.
Quicksilver skin Changing expressions of joy or anger.
I hate myself for even loving the way his face crumples in such vividly visual disappointment (in himself, in his toy).
His face speaks a thousand emotions, a thousand words to me.
His thick thatchy hair (so bristly it almost spikes you to kiss his head).
His jagged teeth and square 'little man' jaw.
His wiry, robust and strong little body.
I want him to get the stars of achievement. I want him to read the words.
I want him to reach the rainbow square and show them all.
I want his teachers to like and understand him.
I want other children to love him as I do.
He is so funny, so ... different.
I fear he will choose never to fit in, and be lost forever.
I hold his little warm hand.
My heart is fierce with protective love; not sloppy: I am fighting my love,
To help him understand the sorrow of having to 'fit in'. To 'do as he is told'.
To be 'like the others'.
To crush his exuberant madness, his brainwaves, his creative force,
To crunch him up, Tight. In a box.
Like school and society want.
Controllable, bland, vanilla boy.
Owey Owey Oatflake.
Keep tight hold of a fragment of your shiny little self.
You have no idea how much of a comfort it will be when you are older.
My feet stink My plates of meat
They stink so bad I can not eat
I'm clean and tidy Not one of life's misfits
Yet my feet still smell like a bag of wotsits
I Drink Too Much
I drink too much Even though its forbidden
I should clean me gaff Before it becomes a midden
I should exercise Or keep me gut hidden
Oh for a fitter bod
I should drive a car But I can’t afford to
I should wear a suit But I haven’t got one that’s new
This is probably why I never get me a screw
Oh for a bigger knob
I should do the shopping But it’s Saturday morn
I should try to save some money But it’s a task that’s so forlorn
All I have is weekend wine Before the Monday morning thorn
Oh for a better job
I complain too much ‘Bout stuff that mattersnot
I’m always asking why the fuck I’m not happy with what I’ve got
But then I stop and think, fuck it Let’s have another shot
That’s one way to shut me gob!
This is my Poem
Here is my poem, it's short and sweet
You can use it for lyrics, if you compose a beat
You can add a guitar and a keyboard as well
Put it on iTunes and watch it sell
Sit back and relax, no need to work anymore
Just watch all the cheques drop through your door
Spend your days relaxing and tweeting
That kind of lifestyle will take some beating
Hire some girls to sing all your songs
Go to the awards and collect all your gongs
If things get too hectic, you can hire some staff
You better start practicing your autograph
Start a website, let them know you're ready for hire
Because today isn't the day that you're ready to retire
You'll compose and work until your last breath
Your songs will survive way after your death
This is my ode to a friend I met on Twitter
As you can see......he is no quitter
(Copyright Blah, blah, etc etc) TraddMark