I have a belief poem. I don't think it's very good, but I was just trying to write something, so here it is anyway.

~

you say i am a shining ray of light, a rose blooming in front of your eyes, a masterful girl who deserves to be queen

he says i am a zombie, a puppet of the council, a horrible person who would never have deserved to be anything

who do i believe?

you, who i have trusted my whole life

who has given me life and beauty and power

or he, who has given me nothing but pain

yet somehow holds a precious

place

in my mind?

who do i care for?

you, who has showered me in meaningless love and adoration

but i still think loves me… in your own way

or he, who has showered me in nothing but pain

but perhaps useful pain? 

he has shown me that i can improve, has helped me to improve

should i believe you? or he?

or, i suppose, neither?

i cannot know.

i cannot trust.

anyone, not even you

i do not believe you. or he. or anyone but myself

i cannot risk to trust anyone 

Hello, I am participating in this thread again. Here's my poem!

---

voice tossed tenfold, multiplied among the fluted pillars--

footsteps on grey-green, frosted-over grass

to believe in someone is to never be truly lost,

to find your words in the bare, pathless trees

around you, to never really drown--

a wind to flutter your skirt, a power that breaks glass,

reverbates and shudders

in the air, in your chest

to believe in someone is to never be truly lost,

to not fear the forests and the earthquakes that come--

beloved, you'll never be truly 

lost 

This is totally cheesy, but...

They thought I didn’t Mean it

“What do you believe in?”

Eyes wander to the fluorescent lights, pencil eraser taps against the lower lip.

I snap back, sentences formed in my mind. I watch as they flow from mind to paper.

The scratching of pencils fills the room, small whispers out of place. I watch as the tip of my pencil dances to its own song, leaving a trail, its legacy.

We read our responses aloud. Most people say normal things-

God. My friends. Myself. Things that you would say as a normal sentence.

My turn. What do I say?

Love. I believe in love.

And I believe that this world needs more of it.

And I believe it changes people.

I believe in love, the one-word universe of beauty and change and repairing things that are damaged and damaging those things in the first place.

They look at me like I’m weird.

(I am weird.) 

What? Don’t you believe in love too? 

This makes me wish I knew more stories from world religions. I had a vague idea for this poem, and I'm afraid it rather spiraled out of control. I don't love this one, but it'll have to do.

..

trunk like a steady scroll,

and splayed branches open to the rain and the wind and the sky

clouds catch on the topmost twigs, and the sun blackens the westernmost limbs as it sets.

and what with the twisted twigs and the gnarled limbs and the tiny nests and the little insects and the misconceptions and the illusions and the dirty crevices and the blood and the canyon-patterns and the light it can be hard

to shake this conception down to the

roots.

(Tree of Knowledge and

Forbidden Fruit and all that) 

Roots, burrowing deep into welcoming, (mostly) fertile soil

spreading, dividing, multiplying

out and out and out,

(we like to think of them as a dark reflection of the above

but sometimes i wonder if they are the light one)

but the roots have long gone forgotten,

we musn't disturb them, child, so turn your gaze upward again,

to those hypnotic, historic branches

those twisting, writhing

bodies,

those flashing, stabbing,

blades,

those useless rivulets of blood 

running from

everything from that crucification to those showers to these shootings 

(Pontius Pilot washed his hands)

and even fights within,

contratctions irritating the knotholes,

branches from the same limb twisted up against each other

(Moses and the Levites commited genocide

after the Calf,

at Sinai).

and sometimes they'll even come tumbling down,

struck by axe or even lightning,

then they'll lie on the ground for nearly an eternity.

(but you musn't look away, dear,

for in all that violence lies a long sought-out answer,

a map, if you can force yourself to read it--

fallen heroes inspire new ones, and dead forests make fine homes for decomposers.)

despite all that,

despite the world,

the same remains true:

at its best it blooms rosy against the tempest,

bears sweetness against drought, plague and cruelty. 

@Abi, were you going to judge soon?

Hello everyone! Sorry I'm late, I've been very busy lately. This round had a lot of wonderful poems, it was REALLY HARD for me to choose a winner. Just know that even if yours wasn't selected, I loved them all!

Honorable mention: Blue Moon! I like how the structure is simple, yet you've managed to entwine two separate stories together into something seamless. The half-rhyming motif is almost hypnotic, and it flows beautifully. "I rip it off the wall" has the perfect amount of punch. Great job!

In third place we have Leafpool! Your poetry is always good, and this is no exception. The description is gorgeous and vivid, and manages to evoke both emotion and visual imagery. I love how you painted the powerful, beautiful aspects of belief— the repetition of "to believe in something is never to be truly lost" is understated yet brilliant and really drives the point home.

In second, the marvelous Stardust! I love love LOVE how you incorporated ideas and stories from different religions throughout the poem, it lent your message a perfect weight. The description and imagery is masterfully executed, and the formatting serves the words in just the right way. The paragraph with "and what with the twisted twigs" is my favorite.

And finally... the moment you've been waiting for ...first place goes to Claaws! Man, this hit me in a way I can't explain. Yours was not at all what I was expecting to get from this theme, which somehow made it all the more powerful. Among the fussy decoration in poetry, emotion often gets lost, but yours defies this brilliantly— The raw edges just makes it more poignant. The progression from "happy eyes" to "empty bottles" is so smooth yet jarring, and AHHH those last few lines! UGH! So good.

Congratulations to the winners, and thank you SO SO much to everyone who participated! You all did an amazing job. It was super difficult for me to pick the winners, there were so many who I wanted to honor! Can't wait for the next round!

Weapons flash,

The dying groan.

This is the horror of war.

Blood is splashed

On each and every stone.

Such is the drink of war.

This offering we make

Is not for glory or fame,

It's for our country, for our kin,

So we dare undertake,

Dare not for our own name,

This sacrifice of good men. 

Not what you would think for sacrifice, but...

When Autumn’s lips kissed the Breeze

A young woman, perhaps seventeen, emerges from a cave,

quiet as a sweet summer breeze. Even though the sky is blue the sea

and the air is warm and still, the woman’s light brown hair ripples about her figure,

and she wears a bleak brown sweater over her itchy grey dress.

Her eyes look sad and sunken, even though their maroon and yellow tints sparkle

brightly. Her skinny legs look like they could collapse under her at any moment, but

she lifts her chin and marches forward. The bare sole of her calloused foot meets the pleasant tickle of green grass for the first time in several months.

She walks like this for several  minutes before coming to a giant, smooth rock. She

runs a hand across its rough surface, knowing she’s close. She

comes to a stop at a circular, hollow piece of stone where three others were gathered-

A girl in her early teens with tanned skin, bright sunny yellow eyes, and brown hair with blonde highlights,

A young man with skin white as paper, icy blue eyes, and a heavy coat draped over his figure,

And a man in his mid-twenties with skin dark brown like the soil after an April shower and eyes green as a toad

Stand tall and authoratively, waiting for the girl. The pale-skinned man nodded at her appearance.

“Ah, good. You’re here.” The girl swallows nervously- the others almost never pay this much attention to her.

“I don’t have much,” she states in a tiny, pleasant voice, like little waves crashing on the ocean shore, “but I’ll offer what I have.”

She snakes her right hand under her sweater, then withdraws it, and tosses her offering into the air.

Watch now as a cool breeze picks up, and the leaves on the trees become a soothing rainbow of maroons and yellows and reds and browns, and crisp red apples blossom from under small twigs on one tree, and a faint scent of cinnamon and pumpkin weaves throughout the blowing wind.

And the girl, the raggedy girl with almost nothing except the clothes on her back, her kindness, and her name- Autumn- smiles at what her sacrifice has done.