Okay, so for this poetry and story contest, you will pick one of the following things to write a poem about.
-A piece of lint
-A recycling or trash can
I may post more options in the future. If you have a different idea for a boring object to write about, please ask me first before you submit your piece..
Basically, you're writing an interesting poem or story about an uninteresting thing. (Or is it uninteresting?) Contest ends when I have 15-18 entries or on September 1st. Unless I change it.
Prizes will be awarded after the contest (duh).
FIRST PRIZE: Comments/ratings on all your pieces, and a million fake dollars
SECOND PRIZE: Comments/ratings on eight pieces, and a million fake dollars
THIRD PRIZE: Comments/ratings on five pieces, and a million fake dollars
HONORABLE MENTION: An imaginary medal
can I do a dust bunny?
Cool, I post mine later tonight or tomorow!
Okay! :D Sounds great!
Here's mine :D
What are they worth
Those smudges of gray
Holding together my thoughts?
Why must they come forth
Again to the page
When I thought I had discarded them
The box of lost dreams
Handwritten ideas all crumbled together
Like a string of paper beads
A broken necklace
Scattered at the end of my relationship
With my imagination
The cycle of life
Each moment leading to the next
Painted in white
On the face of the trash can
Where I tossed my creativity
In page by page of lined paper
Because the light bulb
Good job! :D
Can I do one on a pencil?
Sure! Go ahead!
Here's mine, I hid some symbols in their. See is you can find out. :p
There are pencils sitting on chairs.
Some are taller than the other,
Some are more bold
While others are more thin.
They each have a different skin and different edge and different style,
But they’re used solely for one purpose,
To put lines on a surface.
Each pencil has it’s own outcome,
One draws the dark bold lines
And others scratch in light, loose lines.
Every pencil is used to create something,
Whether it is something dark,
Something mesmerizingly beautiful,
Or even just numbers for math homework.
There are pencils waiting to be used on the shelf,
There are pencils shattered in half,
And there are pencils waiting to draw their conclusions.
The pencils that are waiting are lonely,
The ones that are shattered are lost,
And the ones that are waiting to draw their conclusions
Are all the pencils in the world.
So find some lonely pencils
To tape together their shattered hearts
So they can find their own conclusions.
Very good! :D
Give Me a Pencil
Just give me a pencil and i'll write about a field full of dreams you can spend the rest of your life in,
it's a pencil indeed that objectifies God's hand so much so, that perhaps it should be deemed a moral sin to even own one,
there is much demand for the seams of materialism, but when a pencil's on sale in bulk at a very low cost, i'm thinking,
"have you all gone mad" when you don't crowd the store doors before opening hours, needing to get your hands on more of this remarkable contraption,
that which fable, after story, after cable televisions allegory's have all learned from and held close to their dear hearts,
the writers, the poets, the president's have all known it and some even say it can tople a swordsman in a full suit of armor,
the pencil how majestic, how divine, how hateful, how kind, descriptions of the sun and the moon --- the girl and the boy, just give me a pencil and it will all be true.
Sorry about the format, it was jumbled :(
I am but a Shell Station Sink,
People wash in me to get off the stink.
Why on Earth would the perform such a task,
This is a question I really must ask.
There is a thing called hand sanitizer for a reason,
Using me instead of them could be considered treason.
The smell of your hands really is not pleasent,
Especially when you've given the toilet such a lovely, uh, "present".
I really don't mean to be rude,
But the things that come out of you really are crude.
While you all sit there groaning and grunting,
I sit idly by waiting for the washing.
The thing that I dread most of all,
Is when you turn me off without drying at all.
The wet slimy hands reach out and grab,
And my feeling, all of a sudden becomes even more drab.
So please don't mind me silly rhyme,
Just please think of me next time.
Great! Thanks for entering. :)
If it's still going on, here's mine, it's about rust.
It's Eating Me to Death
I am not precious metal,
but I was shaped into a useful tool.
One day I was forgotten out in the rain,
and when they found me there again
I looked a little different.
Something began to eat me
turning me orange brown.
When I was picked up,
my handle fell off
and I've never felt the same.
Now I am useless,
at least that's what they say,
and my body crumbles
more and more everyday.
Soon I'll be nothing,
I'll blend into the ground.
I become weaker,
my memory begins to fade,
tomorrow will be my last day.
Dang that formatting got a little messed up, it's called "It's Eating Me to Death". There should be a space and then the poem starts...
I am delicate, I am strong
I hold the emotions of your core
Set in fibers from a dead spruce log
I'll display your soul and more.
I am your canvas for thought
let me take the ink and smear
Lie flat to the troubles life has wrought
absorb the color and tears
Let me me your savior
let me be your escape
where there once was fire
will take shape.