Poll: 1 Vote Only
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View poll results: 1 Vote Only
3 27%
2 18%
4 36%
2 18%
Voters: 11.
You only have one vote. This is not a multi-vote poll.


When that first leaf falls
from the weeping willow,
we both look at one another,
wink and welcome the coming of the winter;
at least that’s what he thought.
I, however, would wait with baited breath
for the day that first bud opened,
at which point I’d walk outside and
pick up the tools that we put down
the day we knew autumn had come.
Through the summer we would
measure, cut and put together
anything my Mother wished for,
he would teach me what each tool did,
its name and often where it came from,
as if it was a foreigner indebted
to his hand for its guiding touch.
It is only now, some years on,
I wish I could remember every weekend
we spent underneath that willow tree,
but sadly, as the case may be,
a memory is not as perfect as we’d like,
so I pack the band-saws, the ball-
peen hammer and the screws into
the bag he took to work for many years,
and head off to the market to
barter with some traders with
the few memories of my father
I still have, in the solemn hope that
shiny new tools will keep my son’s
attention as much as these did mine.


I've felt gallant for these crisp times, noting
to myself the changing colours, or the
hipsters taking pictures of dead leaves. Calming
to the sense, a draft of purely smell,
leaving vague emotions, a composite sketch
of tranquility. My intelligence leaves after
a few thoughts and I'm left thinking of nothing
but her.

Last time I saw Sarah she was sitting in a pile
of leaves, falling on the way home, or
as she put it, "Having concrete bones." Left
a finger behind in the lack of snow. Rolling
down the window to let the oxygen take it's toll.
A wedding approaches for neither of us, but
after thinking about it, I'm okay with all of this.
She said after taking my penis in her hands,
"What a nice time of year." True story.

In an interesting twist, my heart and my lungs
belong to the apple tree down the street,
fell in the love with the thing after I moved here,
swimming the sea of green and red, through
wormed cores and a widow's web of bitter apple
pie, an amoral window of oppurtunity, a sweater for her
breasts, and we left each other's tongues under
a tree's shedding skin. A vertical friend, roaming
gifts of broken bark, I can't tell from the distance
whether it's rough or smooth. I can't tell who I'm talking
about; her skin or the forest.
Her lips or the leaves.


I step outside for a second...
Won't need a coat,
just a light jacket.
It's been two weeks,
I can't wait to see her.
Step back in, stop
to take a quick look
in the mirror;
nothing too fancy,
(I don't want to seem desperate)
a red T over blue jeans,
her favorite pair because
she likes the way
they hug me.
I comb my hair,
brush my teeth,
feed the cat, now
it's time to leave.

She asked me to
meet her at the park.
The one downtown where
people always go to
walk their dogs.
During the 10 minute hike,
my excitement is peeked.
Almost there, almost...
there she is. I spot her
on a bench as soon as I
turn the corner,
other than her the
park is empty.

I jog over and take a seat.
She doesn't even look at me,
just drops an envelope
on my lap, with the word
"sorry" written in red ink.
I open it up to find
only one thing,
an engagement ring,
the one from me.

I can't think of a reason.
I close my eyes
long enough
to notice I've
stopped breathing.
I open my eyes, open my mouth
and turn to her to say...
nothing, she's already
up and on her way.

I realize just how empty
the park really is.
The quiet emphasizing
the subtle snap and crackle
of autumn's failing patience,
and with each step heard
I wonder under which leaf
she's hidden my backbone
and dignity.


I’m sweeping bones under carpets,
Dusting off the urned ashes
Of a summer passed.
Now I put my pen to page everday,
trying for some dark, dank university
where I can muffle regrets between squeaky floorboards,
and paint myself blue for a losing team.

I helped the Sun cross the street yesterday.
She’s really getting too old to be waltzing around like that.
Somebody should put her in a Home.
Or a casket.
Like the weather, I’m not particular.

But leaves are falling like freckles,
and everyone, everytree,
is showing the same shade of death.

I always loved autumn colors.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.
Steve, thank you for running such an expansive and well-put-together comp, really, it's amazing the amount of work you put into this forum (not to mention the rest of the website) and just, thank you for pulling this off so flawlessly in lou of other, more pressing, work you have to do.

That said,
Dylan, thanks man. I really mean it. It's been a pleasure and will continue to be. Still some things to come too. i.e. Techniques revamp.

More votes too!!
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.
All of these are great... I don't know which to pick
Drop another coin in the slot, and I will tell you more...
tough call, innit?
these are all charming.

i was tempted to go with Hereditary because of the story,
but chose Freckles because i loved the "voice".
it's very quirky, but simple.
Quote by Jackal58
I release my inner liberal every morning when I take a shit.
Quote by SK8RDUDE411
I wont be like those jerks who dedicate their beliefs to logic and reaosn.
Ok Matt. You're vote is removed and everyone else gains one. Not that it makes much difference.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.
oh I missed the deadline I have a terrible memory, sorry guys. Woulda said hereditary but I guess this cleans up the tie eh?

sorry again.
Anatomy Anatomy
Whale Blue Review

Park that car
Drop that phone
Sleep on the floor
Dream about me
Quote by #1 synth
I disagree with this outcome so ****ing much.

I'm a little bit biased, but I agree with you.
I don't think I should have won, to be clear--(I'm not that biased).

I would've given it to Hereditary, most likely.
I owe a ton of people critiques.

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

I have trouble keeping track.
this is strange without a chord prog this is just poetry,theres no song structure for any of the songs(verse chorus or middle eight).or maybe im on drugs
er, these are poems, nate.

Both lyrics and poetry are accepted here.
I owe a ton of people critiques.

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

I have trouble keeping track.
I don't really agree with the results either. It would have been nice if more people had voted, I'm sure that would have corrected things.

But the reason for this post is to say that the points for this haven't been posted yet.

Just sayin...