First, I will post the overall rules, and then I will post the specifics about this week.
Original rules, as stated by Ubertuna:
It must fit the week's theme. It must be submitted by the deadline. It cannot have inappropriate language in it. It cannot be stolen (if you plagiarize, we will find you).
Also:
The poem must be created for this contest A user cannot win two weeks in a row (though everyone is welcome to submit every week!) Only one submission per user will be accepted
As we all know, the winner will recieve a merit, and their poem will be featured on the _Poetry_ page.
OK, on to this week's topic...Again, we are having a style instead of a theme. Also, this week we are having TWO WEEKS to do it, instead of the usual one. Why? Because this will be an EPIC poem. Or, rather, a parody of an epic poem. Generally, epic poetry is very long, and tells the serious story of a heroic figure. Well, this week, the epic figure is YOU! Write a long poem (I'll leave the definition of 'long' up to you, but give it a good go) about the heroic story of you! It can be silly, serious, whatever... just have fun with it. You have two weeks, so have a great time!
I'm sure hope there's enough room in here for one more.
Time is of the essence, Tick Tock as I go. The Hands Of Time watches, While these feet of mine flow.
Arms stretched for the knob, The touch, cold to the core. Inhale, exhale, As the clock strikes four. ____________________________________________________________
I guess I'll add on to this later on; maybe change it up a bit. I have to say - I didn't do to bad for my first poem. ;D
Though vague and surprised, the R-complex perceives the passing of cycles of cold and of heat. The languishing days go swimmingly by while each does its best to pass on and survive. 'Til finally at once they leave piles of meat having never considered the coming defeat.
But oh, not for us, neocortical slaves! We parse out the night and we labor by day. We wait for the chill to creep into our bones always hoping at best that we won't pass alone. We struggle and toil full knowing futility, though sometimes the best of us has the facility to recognize patterns in things and reations, eventually finding the Lorentz contractions, the method by which we can slow down decay and swing past the average that we tend to stay. But nevertheless it still cannot change the perception of passage or the end of our range. So forward we look, never knowing how far, having once been, and perhaps will again, matter in stars.
When enough poems come in or when the time is ridiculously long. Flexibility is there since I've had enough of judging just 3 or 4 pieces. So just resubmit if you want to.
Back with a little triangular form. Ah, to think of the old days of the poetry contest!
Alas, The glory days. I knew them well enough. When pens clashed, spilling ink on page, When forms and rhyme would flow like precious blood, When hearts of poetry engraved. The prosody they loved Will always Last.
If anyone is interested to take over as judge after this round, tell me, because I'm getting busier, so I won't be able to indulge in such a responsibility, and because I would like to take part once again.
Coma Watching the clock tick, realizing I am sick. I have no idea who I've become, this new mind of mine is a slum.
Time has been cruel, time has been sly, but I can't keep up with everyone walking by. All of these years, what did I miss? The last few years, I was in silent bliss.
What must I do to regain all that have been, to undo the values of my sin. I canât hide the taste of iron in my mouth, I fear my time may almost be out.
