Best Rot Poems
The truth was concealed with many branches. Countless
are the days I happily lingered in the comfort of your shade
before passionate winds revealed each of your limbs as too
weak to support natural, core growth. Your delusive roots
cannot grab substantial hold in earth while fertilized by
pretense’s charade. Only hollow echoes resound within your
skin of splintered bark and your shadows of nothingness grow
ever longer.
Under a warming sun, I joyously gave my heart in open palm
to you. At the time, I ignorantly embraced your breadth and
sum, for your apparent beauty preceded your tells of long
developed and craftily hidden inner rot, sure to disease all love
given in deep, steady, heartbreaking spurts. I can no longer
tarry beneath your deceptive branches and chose to depart with
no thought of ever returning, but I leave behind my tender pity to
witness your inevitable withering.
Written: August 02, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Crystol Woods
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In the slipshod cradle beneath the apple tree,
a bruised fruit folds ajar—
molten sweet sapidity pooling
through velvet skin.
Eviscerated grace, they say,
but I grasp the quiddity of life unmasked.
A burnt sienna kiss of aurora—
flesh undulating with fungal bloom,
wispy gossamer threads that stitch
the inevitable return to the earth.
It is not ruined.
It is a transformation:
a diaphanous ballet
between death and what dreams may grow.
We ogle brightness,
but rot is brighter still—iridescent with purpose,
alabaster spores pirouetting as sylphlike specters
on a sacred odyssey to placate
the starving soil.
It is seraphic.
It is a panacea.
It is quintessence made humble.
Rapture lies in this ineffable nexus—
decay whispers loud as a lullaby.
The rakish grubs maunder through
a velvet pyre of rind and memory,
and the loquacious beetle sermonizes
on endings as beginnings,
as though time had a gullet
And rot was its sweetest wine.
Call it grotesque.
Call it abhorrent.
But beauty—true, ineffable beauty—
wears many masks.
And in these nebulous throes of perishing,
I watch a face burnished by truth,
smiling with roots in its eyes.
We built it with soft hands,
stacked comfort upon convenience,
turned our backs to the gears turning in the dark.
Fed by silver screens and full stomachs,
we let the fire flicker,
too drunk on the warmth to notice the smoke.
They whispered,
“Don’t worry.”
And we believed them.
We traded vigilance for spectacle,
truth for something easier to swallow.
The cracks in the foundation widened,
but we called them character,
part of the charm of an aging empire.
When the first stones fell,
we laughed.
When the pillars trembled,
we turned up the music.
By the time we saw the beast,
it had already made a home in our halls.
And now, even the quiet places are waking up.
The ground hums with something unscripted,
a pulse beneath the broken roads,
a breath held too long.
Fists clench beneath dinner tables.
Voices sharpen in the night.
The forgotten, the overlooked, the ones who never raised their hands—
they are standing now.
The tide that carried us into sleep
has begun to pull back.
And in the silence left behind,
the storm begins to speak.
Some days are winners, others are not
The jury's still out but seems today's gone to pot
My mood's in the dumper
My world's split asunder
We've run out of java, my day is pure rot
© Jack Ellison 2015
here comes the night,
a deep pitch black,
what's sharper than a ravens call?
I know not,
ruffled and bothered,
who hears the raven?
it's the witch who hears him,
when he squawks,
her actions are wicked,
as she cackles and cooks,
black ravens fly,
as she stirs the pot,
her fingers are knobby,
and disfigured,
in all of their joints,
but you needn't fraught,
it's the raven's claw,
she's seeking,
for her spell,
to call out black rot,
as bad as she,
the fungus will grow,
rotting the forest,
wherever she doth trot,
the ravens aware,
that she,
needs his claw,
he'll not be caught,
he hides among the trees,
the branches all twisted,
and disfigured like she,
her cackles within earshot,
the wise old raven,
positions himself,
directly above,
the boiling cauldron pot,
the witch blows in,
pointing her finger at him,
I've got you now!
she thought,
the raven squawked,
"look below old witch,
notice anything new?
I've moved your pot,"
with that he flew,
knocking the witch,
into her own brew,
where she boils and rots,
so listen without fear,
when the raven squawks,
he saved his forest,
and whatnot.
STOP THE ROT
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
Who am I to judge or make comment?
Tell a story about the past and present
When I live and work in Australia
And can’t claim this place as my home
…
For the original inhabitants, indigenous people
Claim Australia as theirs, say it was stolen
Forget about the white folk and what they have achieved
This great land of plenty should be shared by all
…
I feel we should live as one nation with a united voice
Share the spoils and reap the rewards for all
Live and let live in peace and harmony
Treat all as equals in all things Australian
…
Australian born and bred for 70 years plus
Living in a country divided flying two flags
I have no choice this place is home to me
But feel alienated in a foreign land
…
To segregate, alienate, divide and cause disharmony
Resentment and abuse of the law of the land
Governments must show courage, lead by example
Not favor one people over another for political gain
We will pay dearly for saying sorry for deeds of the past
If the original inhabitants have their way
We should not be held to ransom for the past
By those with an agenda to divide this nation
…
Let commonsense prevail, put the past to bed
Whilst remembering the wrongs that took place
Join the two flags to signify a nation as one
Let this be the crux that heals the rift that exists
…
Maybe then the rot will stop
Rondelet : (Nuclear) Rot in bowels
Rot in bowels
Sealed tight in cans, retarded bombs
Rot in bowels
Nuclear waste Earth sucks capsules
Poisoned gift to children in dumps
Let’s dance in White Night till Hell comes
(Nuclear) Rot in bowels.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
I live my life everyday but i slowly rot away. I try to make friends but none never come my way. I still live my life any ways. I might not make friends someday.But if not that's OK because i will live my life any way. and continue to rot away just like i do everyday.
I am with my friends.
We are sitting in the balcony in open air, feeling the sky is the limit, or is it?
Then i take-off.
I am in wonderland or maybe it is alice.
Everybody are laughing, maybe they are laughing at me.
Then i notice myself laughing, maybe I'm also laughing at myself.
Theories are unpredictable.
Its the only time i become sucrose-tolerant.
The music is soothing, taking me places.
The night sky is brilliant, the stars are dazzling, i can feel the wind blow across my body.
I am hungry, i am thirsty.
Oh! once again, the music is amazing. Spiraling around.
Then i wait... Wait till I rot away...
The churches walls are crumbling for there’s rot in its foundations,
a guiding light grown dim through shadows cast by foul temptations,
the journey of a soul’s been lost to vanity and greed
and when the tongue of the divine grows forked the truth shall soon secede
The empty spaces left where changers had plied their trade in coins
made way for darker business more concerned with youth and loins,
and the same who preach condemnation for real love between grown men
have shown the rights of paedophiles are now a duty to defend
A name and reputation now given more value than a flock,
yet both are falling ever further with every ticking of the clock,
shielding wolves from harm as they prey viciously on lambs,
it seems the spirit has grown stagnant for its sources have been dammed
Misogyny, intolerance and righteous condemnation
are the fruits the tree has born within your garden of creation,
and the serpent hitched a ride with whispers mistaken for the Word,
and sweeping filth under the rug it seems is the cleaning that’s preferred
I sense here some things sinister—a scent
of sulphur, sulking in a sultry pit;
a serpent’s hiss, expressed from space unlit;
a warm spell spilling from some seething vent;
I find now some things filthy—foul ferment
foaming, frothing; a gaseous, gurgling slit
discharging fetid, festering, sour spit;
malignant mold in cold, cracking cement;
So languid, loath, obtuse I trepidate
on into the black bowels of my home.
Gagging back a nausea’s tepid bubble,
shivering a shudder that won’t abate,
discover I a gory catacomb.—
Woah… I see well now how bad my trouble!
Betrayal leads to a despair like none other. Is there any consolation? No. It is a
mark that bleeds continuously, as you weaken with dread.
This poem is about someone being left in the cold with no consolation and no
comfort. All that is felt is the sharp twinge of pain and the deepest sadness that is
easily ignited and difficult to put out.
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prick your way through darkness
pluck those useless strings
sugar-coated regrets
lost forever through dreams
questions filter in the shadows
cruel thought mixed with dread
treading through heartless meadows
my echoes left for dead
you left me cold in the voids of time
your heartless heart still beats in me
I see the deepness of those eyes
even though you aren't here with me
watching the water drain
kill that time, kill that pain
beat me down, wake me up
please don't hurt me again
pluck your guitar
bring me down to ruin
you seem so far
time is brewin'...
time in all its humbleness
will take me in this wilderness
to tie me in these endless knots..
for now
I rot..I rot...I rot...
left in the wilderness
to rot...
to rot.
I have to tell you that this is fiction
Or else I'd get a conviction.
A family of evil with cold dead hearts
No one can trace where their family starts.
For at least a 100 years they been pulling the strings
They're not human, only cold dead things.
With more wealth than the rest of us combined
Heads of the KGC I think you'll find.
They're trying to claim the planet, they're trying to steal the crown.
Nine tenths of the people they plan to drown.
They've dimmed the light and tried making it dark
You'll be dead if you don't wear the beasts mark.
War, poverty and hunger can be layed at their door
Nearly a bank in every country, just a few more.
Slavery never ended, we're all under monies cane
They killed Lincoln because he new their game.
War criminals, murderers and sick peadophiles
Jake doesn't care who he defiles.
The truth is there for you to see with your own eyes
Don't believe government or media lies.
To this family they all pay a toll
Its the Rotchilds that's in control.
With a two party system freedom is your illusion
You're just another battery stuck in their confusion
Yard skeleton hazard’s a stay.
He smells like a fish aft’ three days.
We wish he’d keel over,
But one might discover
the neighbor’s been dead, sans sway.
How bad we’d all feel - all the same,
the grit and the bow are to blame.
The holiday bones wave.
It’s time to dig’m a grave.
The neighbor too IF he’s the same.
I pick your apples with a gentleness uncharacteristic of my kind.
I eat them with a fervor that may only come from me.
You are my garden of Eden and I gladly take any fruit the snake may provide me
Because having a piece of you, however unlasting, is better than having none.
Because I hold onto you like a farmer holding his last crop.
And I feast. I allow myself to consume.
If you have the ability to go, then god knows I have the ability to devour.