CONTESTS AND ALPHABET TURDS
I have given contests my very best
only to bruise my ego with unrest
and sometimes hurt within my chest.
I confess to times of being obsessed
with stinking poetry contest-distress.
Feelings from result-upsets are not chronic,
no, they are more geared towards chaotic.
Whenever my imagination goes myopic,
I become a seeker of contest topics
to fast provide fed to my eager muse,
ergo, I have sustained the pain of abuse.
Sad chagrin remains aflame till my joy claims
and strains my reins to make me pen poems again.
I win only the odd inning to earn minimal grinning.
Contests involve allegiances, politics, grievances,
perspectives, objectives and other human messes.
They are entered by a sphere of genuine peers
who, like me, have need to feel they belong here.
Whether my entries are revered and cheered,
or seemingly smeared and painfully speared,
I would spill no ink if contest stink disappeared.
For me, smelly contests heed the strong need
of my self-centered muse who controls my lead.
Perhaps these words are just stinky alphabet turds
that I merged for a contest my muse used to feed.
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