1st place

Worthless Vilanelle

Frustrated, I throw down paper and quill,
Sitting in my forestal home,
For everything created is akin to swill.

I long to write poetry with pomp and frill,
Not meandering lines with words that roam.
Frustrated, I throw down paper and quill.

Though there are lines to write and stanzas to fill,
I haven't the merit to fill a tome,
For everything created is akin to swill.
To spring from this block by some magic pill,
I've tried but have lyric's glass dome,
Frustrated, I throw down paper and quill.

So I'm surrounded by poetry whose value is nil,
Though i still write into a madman's foam,
For everything created is akin to swill.

These poems are judged by critics who move into kill,
Picking out its deficiencies with a fine-toothed comb.
Frustrated, I throw down paper and quill,
For everything created is akin to swill.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Ferinus, in the year 436 AD.