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  1. theoriginalmonsterman

    theoriginalmonsterman Pickle Contest Administrator Contributor

    Dec 3, 2014
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    Past Contest Poetry Contest #273 -- Theme: "Being Human"

    Discussion in 'Bi-Weekly Poetry Contest' started by theoriginalmonsterman, Apr 5, 2016.

    Sorry this contest took longer than usual to get up. I was busy yesterday, and couldn't find any time to sit down and set this up.

    I thought for this poetry contest I'd take a step back, and return to a written theme instead of a photograph. What I'll do is set-up a poll where you guys can vote for what type of theme I should use for the next contest on this thread. I'll do that on a separate thread though, so you guys aren't restricted from discussing it.

    Anyways, the theme for this contest is "Being Human". Feel free to interpret the theme in any way you want, but please make sure your poem does include the theme in some way.

    All entries are due by 11:59 PM Eastern Time (ET) on Saturday, April 23rd. All entries should be posted directly in this thread. Replies will be anonymized by the anonymizer system, and they will be de-anonymized once voting ends. Keep in mind that you're responsible for making sure the formatting of your poem is correct.

    Good luck to anyone who enters! I'll be looking forward to :read: your poems!
  2. Raven484

    Raven484 Contributing Member

    Jan 6, 2016
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    The Chill of Time

    How can it end this way?
    I was a leader, a king, a God.
    Loved by all that is Good.
    Repulsed by all that is Evil.

    I deserve the glory of battle.
    The sweet smell of vindication over my adversaries.
    The triumph of right over wrong.
    I deserve a heroes welcome to the afterlife.

    Instead my body gives in to the cold.
    Age has demented my mind from understanding.
    Each passing day ignored by the living.
    I have been reduced to an unimportant burden.

    Being human was not to be my destiny.
    I was to be loved by all.
    My name was to be remembered a thousand years.
    Now I am no one.
    Waiting for death to steal me from existence.
  3. Aaron Smith

    Aaron Smith Contributing Member Contributor

    Jun 2, 2013
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    What a crazy thing to be

    Politics, is that the police?
    Syria sounds like a fruit.
    What's a crisis?
    It's raining,
    daddy can we go outside?

    But you promised!

    I always get chosen last
    because I'm not slick, sexy or fast.
    I have acne all over my face
    My mom says keep going
    but what does she know anyway
    She says that it will all work out
    some day
    That I am a nice boy.

    The next chapter is a dream,
    Perhaps a story for a future theme,
    My ride has been short but ragged,
    Let me take my time to live,
    what else is there?
  4. Wayjor Frippery

    Wayjor Frippery Contributing Member

    Feb 24, 2016
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    Tranquility Base
    Plumb Being Human

    Chick rants and she roars and she rages at him
    But she can’t keep the cat cos its hair does him in
    So she makes up her mind to meet some new blokes
    And she mops moggie’s mane all over his smokes

    Bloke squawks and he squeals and he squares up to fight
    But he can’t keep from coughing as try as he might
    So he hacks up a hairball and hawks it at her
    And he heads home all humbled and gagging on fur

    Cat cuddles in and claws out a purr
    It liked that last bloke a lot more than her
    But people are pests
    always poised to let doom in​
    And cat pities poor apes
    when they’re plumb being human​
    Last edited: Apr 22, 2016
  5. Raiya

    Raiya New Member

    Jan 18, 2016
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    To be or not to be

    To be alive is not to live,

    To have eyes is not to see.

    To hear is not to listen -

    To be is not to be.

    When one can wound with no remorse,

    Can rape and steal and lie.

    When one can kill his fellow man –

    Does truly horrify.

    To be human without humanity,

    Does clarify insanity.

    To be without a soul or call –

    Is simply not to be at all.
  6. Jeni

    Jeni Member

    Mar 4, 2016
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    Humanity angels crave?
    A fragile life, destined for the grave

    Faithful, boastful, good of heart
    A paradigm, a work of art

    Male and female, body and soul
    A sum of parts, working as one whole

    Receiving birth and suffering death
    Breathing......even a single breath

    Transgressors of love, loss, and hate
    The nervous flutters of a first date

    Creatures of need, desire, and delight
    Able to find new hope, within the light

    Loping through life carelessly
    Forever begging clemency

    Experiencing a life hasty, finite
    Humanity is an Earthly mortal plight

    Savoring gods loving gaze
    Relishing life to it's fullest

    ............Until the end of days
  7. oiiiiiiiiio

    oiiiiiiiiio New Member

    Apr 13, 2016
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    Nob Hill

    Fingered, entrapped within introverted cage.

    Fuzzy pillows and decadent delicacies distract the hapless captive, grown languid and doughy from medications administered quietly inside of sundaes and glasses of Chardonnay.

    If people do business, then does it stand to reason that we are the descendants of insects?

    Since people pay to f--k, does it stand to reason that we are of reptilian descent?

    We did all come from underwater, after all.

    Robots apply their oxygen masks before assisting their young, if they have any young to assist.

    Martyrdom is for rodents.

    Robots in a huddle are trying to solve a problem.

    Listen to their binary chatter and watch.

    They're attempting to fathom a road killed squirrel, observing and analyzing the strange red pudding festering on the sidewalk.

    It's collecting flies.

    The machines lose interest.

    Tyranny is so relative after all.

    Hope that you aren't prey, I'm not prey.

    Dire wolves are closing in on us in a rabid pack.

    Dormant ferocity threatens to rear its ugly head.

    Insectoid intentions.

    Primitive Darwinism lurks behind the muted expression of aristocracy.

    Pretty boys line the girls' locker room while the girls are on the court playing volleyball under the supervision of a hairless blob of lipids and skin.

    The blob farts and turns a page in his fitness magazine.

    One of the girls falls flat on her face.

    The boys are watching eagerly from the locker rooms on secret televisions connected to secret video cameras they've hidden all over the court.

    One of the girls enters the locker room to grab a water bottle she forgot to grab.

    The boys scatter like centipedes as soon as the door cracks open.

    All evidence of their presence dissipates and the girl skips, carefree, to her locker, unaware of the boys' furtive yellow eyeballs monitoring her every move through the cracks between the cinderblocks in the wall.

    An old cop with thin, grey hair and a hard, stationary gut apprehends a young black woman for selling her body after dark.

    She is lying face down on the street, hands behind her back.

    The cop is on her back like a monkey.

    He has his knee on her neck in a way that grinds her makeup into the asphalt.

    She whimpers and he lightens the pressure.

    The handcuffs click shut and he picks her up, leads her to the car, feigning sympathy or perhaps in genuine denial about the offensive nature of his existence.

    Meanwhile a few blocks around the way, a leathery urchin puts a lighter to the end of his glass stem and sucks and sucks, trying to drink his life force back into himself out of the object that sapped it to begin with.

    He's hardened his body like tanned hide and softened his brain to the point of flabbiness and dilapidation.

    Our house is falling apart, the paint is peeling off the paneling.

    Dilapidation used to be strangely beautiful in a creaky, unsustainable way.

    Newly dilapidated houses fall apart smoothly, though.

    They slide neatly into a million pieces which evaporate as soon as they touch the ground, leaving clean patches of earth in their wake.

    Smooth dilapidation is the new decay, a noiseless disintegration of the raw materials.

    Genuine absence of life is a facet exclusive to new decay.

    Old horrors have given way to contemporary sterility.

    And now the houses are getting gutted.

    Princes pawn the ornate possessions hidden within.

    Hipsters and whores peddle their wares in a late attempt to regain some of the old dilapidation aesthetic.

    Some begin to adapt gradually.

    Conservatism is indeed an exercise in futility.

    Most people figure this out eventually but it takes some people longer than others.

    Some people never get over their denial of the passage of time.

    Some societies still live as small farmers with late night barns lit by oil lamps.

    If you want my advice, progress.

    Summed, nothing but suffering ever came of working against the clock, despite the fact that certain derivative lifetimes make it all the way in start to finish before the paradigm shifts.

    Regardless of the incarnation, all forms of dilapidation are existentially congruent.

    Their cores are identical, though their dressings often dissimilar.

    Incarcerated invalids rattle the doors to their cages, gnawing at the bars and growling like rabid dogs.

    But not like dire wolves.

    The cards are still all the same.

    Hunter holds up, but he still couldn't bag the wolf.

    Meanwhile in the trenches and marshlands surrounding the penitentiary, little girls and boys stand in an endless line waiting to be assigned a role for the school play.

    The line is hectic.

    One must tolerate standing in it for days, months, years of excruciating waiting.

    The girls and boys fight and push, each trying to elbow their way to the front of the line.

    It is first come, first serve.

    The bigger kids always get to the front first, so the gentle ones begin to collude.

    They charge admission to get onto the bandwagon, but even if you pay you have to be sharp as a tack to be beckoned into the arcane circles.

    Lead roles are not for the imperfect.

    Not in this play.

    Not at this school.

    The smart kids begin making macaroni with their credentials.

    What began as protective tactic becomes an offense.

    The one shoe unties itself and switches feet, as if by magic.

    The smart kids can't cope.

    They've been victims for too long.

    They can't handle the privilege to be free from oppression.

    They decide to fill the void using their own devices.

    A change in the direction of flow, but the status quo is running strong, in its plateau phase.

    The whole system of collusion gravitates towards new decay, disintegration of tangible component parts, lifeless dilapidation.

    The play no longer goes to seed with neglect, it deep freezes to choke away all life.

    And now we're no longer buried in a colossal compost heap, but standing on the icy surface of a barren planetoid.
    Last edited: Apr 13, 2016
  8. I.A. By the Barn

    I.A. By the Barn A very lost time traveller Contributor

    Oct 26, 2015
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    What is human?
    To feel the tears welling up
    For the most tragic thing,
    Yet look away in embarrassment
    That is human.

    To scream into the night
    Because they torture you,
    But run to their arms
    That is human.

    To change every element of yourself
    As you want the whispers to go away,
    Yet they only grow in your mind
    That is human.

    To smile and laugh with all your heart
    For this single moment your worries corrode,
    Yet by morning they'll all return
    That is human.

    To pretend and show as a child is juvenile
    Because adults have felt it all,
    But pretend they do not
    That is human.
  9. SethLoki

    SethLoki Unemployed Autodidact Contributor

    Jan 1, 2011
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    Manchester UK
  10. Ogygia

    Ogygia New Member

    Apr 22, 2016
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    I stood on my two legs first in summer,
    dampness of yesterday’s rain lined my feet.
    Blunted my claws right down to fingernails
    and then brushed and scrubbed and rubbed until
    my skin was raw and bad thoughts no longer
    clung heavy like dew. Reflected in my
    mirror was a predator - some great wolf
    with the sharpest teeth to wound sallow skin.
    Or perhaps behind those sunken eyes
    lived an owl who stared at me, unblinking.
    To fight or flee? - I snarled at them until
    I was distorted; a guttural ape
    with too much brain. The mutual truce was reached:
    I stay in my castle, they lurk at my gate
    to hide and stalk and wait, and pluck apart
    the great stone walls enshrined around my thoughts.
    Then drive me to all fours and listen to
    the wails and roars as I lacerate myself
    with some half-sobbed words which pierce the skin
    like jagged teeth of harpoons that bleed the
    whale. But I forced my whalers to starve.
    I painted on my smile over my
    mimicry of the feminine, as if
    I were delicately watercolouring
    an obscene canvas of oil. Facade
    complete, the door to my cage was opened
    and out I stepped: half-woman half-possessed,
    held to ransom by empty-bellied creatures
    or phantasms of the mind. If the world
    is a stage do its players notice
    this animalistic interloper?
    Or are they too trying to be human?
  11. Zarynn_

    Zarynn_ New Member

    Apr 21, 2016
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    All I see is nothing.
    Should I see?
    What's the point, right?

    It's all blank.

    Oh, you said intelligence?
    That is in your mind, right?
    Are you sure?
    Isn't your mind your killer, though?
    I can't see intelligence.
    Am I suppose to see?
    Disappointing, aren't I...?

    You see Life,
    I see Darkness.
    Where you see Genius,
    I see a Killer.

    Are you asking what I see in these...things?
    I see everything your own mind pushes away,
    In order for you to stay Humane.

    Why, you ask?
    Oh, well...
    Is it so bad to be crazy?

    I see me.
    Zarynn_ likes this.
  12. Michael R. Kage

    Michael R. Kage New Member

    Aug 7, 2014
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    Alien hotel

    Blue’s the hue of our world
    Just a rock in cosmos hurled,
    Spinning planet, hearth and home
    Countless live under it’s dome.

    Apes we are and not too scary
    We just look a little hairy,
    But were not as bad as that
    We are playful, like a cat!

    It’s our brains that matter most
    That makes us the prefect host,
    Outward presence cast aside
    Since it’s useless as a guide.

    If the cosmos’s wrong for you
    We just might convert you too,
    And in time you will just yell
    I am human, can’t you tell?
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