Kirsty excitedly rushes to the podium and begins to speak!

FREESTYLE POETRY CONTEST

"Friends, it's time to INCREASE THE PEACE, and the best way to do that is through the medium of poetry.  So, instead of a long-form creative writing contest, let's just do a FREESTYLE POETRY CONTEST!

No minimum length, no maximum length.  Just come here, recite your poem, leave a copy in the lamppost here, and you've officially entered.

PRIZES:

Best Poem: $2,000,000

Good Poem: $1,000,000

OK Poem: $500,000

Worst Poem: $3,000,000

I'll start:

I am Kirsty

I run a crew

Got so many hits on me

I don't know what to do

Although I'm a woman

My main interests are

What men  do to each other

When they're behind bars

I got a bold suit

And an academic brain

And still fools be wanting to

Shoot at me (again)

I wish they'd take the time

To get to know me

And honour the work

I do for the creative writing community

You know I am Right, so don't get me Wrong,

but after your entry, my chances of winning the Worst Poem Prize is gone..

Right, said Right

With repetitious delight

Seemed to be challenging me

To a poetic fight

Your name can mean correct

And the tone you presume to effect

Is that of a man unconcerned by me 

And my obvious ability to take your overtures and deflect

So listen up Right, and listen up well

You try often, and you try hard as Hell

But you puts words together badly

And the end result is, your attempts fell

Mobsters aplenty,

Training, cheating and killing,

Until we all die.

The Hitlist by Rick_Dalton

Each day that passes on,

Another hit is raised by Anon.

Whilst their pockets are seemingly deep,

The Grin Gang lose no sleep.

Although Kirsty is trying her best,

They still want to put her to rest.

Will this saga ever end?

or will they actually make her a friend? 

Old Rick isn't too sure of the conclusion,

This poem probably added confusion.

He hopes at least it bags him some cash,

or he might have to give the Hitlist a bash... 

I’m Charles or Chuck to my closest friends

My ball skills are wonderfully fine

The churros I love are the latest trend

And that is shown when you see my waistline

I made Right my hand

He rolls dice with little luck

And empties my bank

Yellow or pink with a lovely smell

Seattle’s La Crme sells awesome custard.

Tho’ it’s not to all tastes that’s quite true to tell

It’s the best yellow treat since English mustard

Excellent, Charles_Barkley - and good effect, Rick_Dalton (don't you ever forget who you are)

A quickie from me, inspired by "Chuck"

Coleman

Is the mustard man

And it's said that 

The money he makes

It not from the mustard you take

But that which is left behind

In the jar, that you find

Has gone out of date

Lost

Once I was lost
Wandering like a ghost
All around the town
In my white gown.

Walking by the coast
Saw under the lamp post 
A girl was crying
She was saying,
“From inside I'm dying,
I'm not lying,
I've been trying,
To find my home,
But I'm all alone.”

I sat beside her
Tried to console her
“Soon you will find it,
Just wait a little bit.”
Staring at me with her eyes,
She could see through my lies.
She said,
“Don't lie, you can't even hide it!”

I closed my eyes
As the sun began to rise
And dozed off to sleep
Falling too deep
When I woke up
It was nothing but a dream.

---

Lmao yea I just tried 

I see that NoamChomsky has already offered you a haiku, so I thought that I would up the ante by giving you my take on a Chōka.

When I eat Pizza

My Sons come to my tired mind.

What are they to me?

Silver or gold or jewels?

Separated by time,

Flickering before my eyes.

Just out of my reach,

Almost near and yet too far.

Thoughts of Yesteryear,

Sadness to much to contain.

My Eyes red, face wet,

Shaka, when the walls fell - down!

My heart beats with pain,

The River Temarc, Frozen...

Sokath, his eyes uncovered!

Time marches onward,

I restart in Chicago,

Yet Still i live in the past.

Brotherhood of the Hitlister.

Zapata. 

They say my boss Grin is a mean old man,

That he spreads his tyranny across the land,

While frenching their sisters, the masked financiers think,

"If we hitlist him, we'll force him to the brink!"

Masters of war and shadows in the night,

Men of terror and vengeance and brilliance and fright,

How does one fight an invisible enemy,

Who does you no harm nor fear nor worry?

"Look, brother, how we have made him frown!"

Their fat little hands clenched around a crown,

The King of the Dweebs and his extra round table,

Counting all the money that they are able,

They huddle in their lair developing a plan,

To make the American Mafia great again,

The light of their genius shines on a glorious credence,

To spend two billions dollars on mild inconvenience. 

It came to me like an Epiphany

This is how it's supposed to be

Everyone pointing their gun at me

It's not hard to see

Only hard to speak, with my tongue tied

I only spoke the truth, I never lied

My old ways will never die

The new ones will shine

Back to the mobster grind

Back to making a dollar to your dime

On God's time

We will never stop until we succeed

We start off selling the weed

Then we move to shrooms

Then we roll around building a gun for your impending doom

Now we're on the top finely groomed

We have to sleep with one eye opened

When the untold truth is never spoken

Trust and bonds become broken

Paranoia sets in and that's when the bullets fly

Many funerals we visit to cry

The killing won't stop

Until we're on top

Until we become the cream of the crop

Then the youngsters of the deceased take to the family legacy

So hard-headed they think, "everyone is dead to me"

They start selling the weed

Then move to shrooms

Rolling around building a gun for your impending doom

Need a place to stay? Here, take a room.

One day I was walking down the street

I saw a bar and went in to eat

I saw an old enemy of mine

Standing outside waiting in line

The line was a long one

It was for free illegal bourbon

But he never got to take his sip

Cause I shot him in the hip

I've said all I have to say when it comes to mafia-related poetry. I'll not come out of retirement, even for two million dollars. The bard in me was murdered the day I finished fourth place in a story based competition. It feels like just yesterday when I tepidly walked away from the list of winners seeing my name tacked to the very end in the considerations section.

There will be no more poetry in my heart,

Ever since Latom stole my quick start.

As quickly as he came to the poetry slam, Sisyphus left. One cannot lose if they do not play.

Day and Night

He was light,

She was darkness,

Each wanted the other,

Yet knew not what the other was,

She sensed he was there,

He dreamed that she existed,

Each wanted the other,

Yet knew not what the other was,

He pushed the world forward,

She gave the world rest,

Each wanted the other,

Yet knew not what the other was,

She was refined and proper,

He was raw and natural,

Each wanted the other,

Yet knew not what the other was,

A world apart one slept,

While the other fought for a belief,

Each wanted the other,

Yet knew not what the other was,

Forever he reached for her,

Forever she wanted to feel his touch,

Each wanted the other,

Yet knew not what the other was.

Being a weirdo

I always say im the best

Even when Im the worst

I can always with my best side

Make sure to say to all Im the best

Whenever anyone talk to me

I always make sure they get to know Im the best

Truly is that Im a weirdo

That so many hates til I die

No one knows who this is about

Just the autor knows it and having fun with it.