This winter, trees
don’t wear leaves of tiny lights
and the nights miss the brightness of avenues.
We look up to the skies
and stars don’t shoot themselves
up like a cascade of comets.
The only spirit we have left is
awakened by the memories of former years
when we replaced price tags and the future
for smiles. We stare blankly
at the Christmas tree on my bedroom
and draw a fireplace where we wish
to burn everything that reminds us
that the present is naked
and the only star we pray to follow
doesn’t leave the house, hanging
on top of trees that don’t breathe.
This kind of captures exactly what last Christmas felt like for me. Everything you write seems to strike a chord in me somewhere, and I think that's why your work resonates with me so much and so often. Keep it up, Andre.

P.S. It would be massively appreciated if you could crit My Way Out. It's my personal favorite of my writings, and I've been aching to see what others think
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That's some nice hair you've got there.

I'm watching you.

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If I was a rich man in 17th century Britain, I'd totally adopt Alec and make him my heir.

People say I tan easily, but that's just my Bronze showing through.
would love to see a little better attention to syllable count and "when we replaced price tags and the future for smiles" fell really flat for me but overall really solid piece. my kind of poetry. the lonely kind.