Poll: This years Champ?
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View poll results: This years Champ?
6 25%
8 33%
13 54%
9 38%
Voters: 24.
5 days, multi-vote. Make it happen kids.

The best I can give is 2%

embraced each other like defeat,
in the wee hours, we
sunk bourbon down thirsty throats
burned the chill, swallowed the choke, and
swapped healthy for sane. We may
have flooded out our love, but at
least we drowned the pain.
don’t cry over...

We ordered out and
ate with sticks.
I swallowed words
and a paper slip, that read
like an obituary.
You told a joke like a secret,
stretched a crooked smile,
and between blushing cheeks whispered:
We’re like books. When we’re opened,
We’re red.

That one just killed me.
Still showing teeth stained read,
you mop me up like
spilled milk.

There's A Hole In My Bucket Dear Liza, Dear Liza

I've seen both of her faces
and realize that all points
of caution have long since passed.
It was the grin on her face,
and the guts of a bottle
charading as her conscience,
parading as her confidence.
Anywhere a lightbulb swings,
she'll be the one shifting
with the shadows.

It was just like she had dreamed,
minus the charisma
and the folding lawn chairs.
Fingers tracing broken bone
trying to make the connection.
Eyes tracing trees
from ground to canopy,
trying to make the connection.
Toes tapping to a different beat,
trying to make the connection.
Though she never could tell us apart
with her eyes closed.

"I won't say that I like you", she said,
"but I will give you this...
It takes a man to lose all the
friends that he never had
to begin with."

Maybe there is no connection.


We rode bicycles over a mountainside made of cheap street crack and wine.
‘Michelangelo,’ she said. ‘these walls ain’t even half as tall as what we thought they
were. Look, you can see all of the sky tonight. Oh, you can see all of the sky!’
She asked for a statue, and I etched her out a marble portrait of the moon.
‘Baby,’ she spoke. ‘the moon?’
‘Without the sun to light it up, it’s just another rock.’
‘Let’s go.’ She sung.
We found shovels in our empty garden bed, and dug until we hit water.
‘We’re stuck,’ I cried. ‘we’re really fucking stuck.’
‘Close your eyes, we’re in a ship. Okay? And we’re sailing through a stream of
cement and bricks, and we’re not stuck, okay? Just close your eyes and paddle, like this.’
I cupped a hand against the sunlight. Her eyes were mirrors in a morning so bright.
There were birds dancing like kites strung up for a day parade,
And there were old trees and soft hills and low rolling meadows,
And for a moment the sun swung behind a cloud.
‘The moon never looked so alight.’
As she laughed I placed a frame around her neck and made her a masterpiece.

For Dylan

-Make it real
-Stop Hiding behind metaphors
-Give your words life
-Your characters are one-dimensional
-Write about me, it will give you inspiration.

---Suggestions followed.

Here's to real life,
raise one full glass of bourbon
and two middle fingers.

You write to release,
I write because I'm bored.
Both are running from something.
You want real?
You want my life in words?

Fuck it.

I'm twenty and still lost about life,
I'm afraid of alcohol
I'm afraid of cigarettes
I'm a virgin
and I still can't decide if God is real

I write about things that don't exist;
I write to make them real,
so that for a moment I control someone's life;
even if it is an eighty year old grandma that doesn't exist.

If I sprawl my life on paper,
it becomes tangible,
it loses its metaphor
it impacts.
Suddenly I'm on a roller coaster of
half-assed emotions and a level of apathy
I can't shrug from my fucking shoulders
and I'm left staring down the barrel of sixty years til death do me part.
I'm taken back to that moment in the woods,
forty-five in mouth...
to that moment where I decided I wasn't
cowardly enough to quit.

I'm taken back to my weak core,
back to the soft spot hiding beneath
witty and politically incorrect humor.
I'm left standing alone,
in front of a mirror and my harshest critic.
Only to realize my cock isn't as big as I'd like,
that I have too many freckles,
that my hair is the wrong color,
and I still have pancake nipples.
err. Were we allowed to change pieces for this? I sent in a PM, but apparently not soon enough...
I owe a ton of people critiques.

If you're one of them, please PM me.

I have trouble keeping track.
probably too late to do much good, but I PMed it via profile.
I owe a ton of people critiques.

If you're one of them, please PM me.

I have trouble keeping track.
haha, could you just bold it, then?
I owe a ton of people critiques.

If you're one of them, please PM me.

I have trouble keeping track.