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Autumn leaves falling
Roads paved with red and yellow
Leaves don't die in vain
All of my leaves are turning red and yellow, orange leaves are over rated (As are evergreen trees).
 Nov 2012 Amanda Fletcher
Higgs
To the untrained eye,
You are just another American.

Going about your business,
Nothing special.

But,

When you step into a booth
You are transformed.

And now you have
Within your grasp

A Super Power!

Which can shape the world...

So please,
When the time comes,
Don't forget to vote.
I thought I ought to re-post this, in time for the Election!
A silence with you
Is not
a silence

But a moment rich
with peace
'Twas midnight in the schoolroom
And every desk was shut
When suddenly from the alphabet
Was heard a loud "Tut-Tut!"

Said A to B, "I don't like C;
His manners are a lack.
For all I ever see of C
Is a semi-circular back!"

"I disagree," said D to B,
"I've never found C so.
From where I stand he seems to be
An uncompleted O."

C was vexed, "I'm much perplexed,
You criticise my shape.
I'm made like that, to help spell Cat
And Cow and Cool and Cape."

"He's right" said E; said F, "Whoopee!"
Said G, "'Ip, 'Ip, 'ooray!"
"You're dropping me," roared H to G.
"Don't do it please I pray."

"Out of my way," LL said to K.
"I'll make poor I look ILL."
To stop this stunt J stood in front,
And presto! ILL was JILL.

"U know," said V, "that W
Is twice the age of me.
For as a Roman V is five
I'm half as young as he."

X and Y yawned sleepily,
"Look at the time!" they said.
"Let's all get off to beddy byes."
They did, then "Z-z-z."
Palm Trees
Ink & Cement
Brown Eyes
She Doesn't Love Me

Sweet Heart
Crooked Mouth
I'm All Alone
She Doesn't Love Me

Eye Contact
I Contact
Eye Contact
I Contact

She's dancing with you
What would I even say?
You wouldn't like me
I don't like me
 Oct 2012 Amanda Fletcher
Emma T
Where is my Apollo?
Where is my Muse?
The eyes like amber rose
That burned my lips with scars
of liars words
and a foolish bards wish
to kiss the lips of he who plagues me
to end it all in
one
foul
swoop
to find real, true beauty
just look up at the stars
there is no way of knowing
who we really are
looking into a mirror
and as seconds tick by
we pretend not to hear them
while we wish we could fly
our freedom feels anchored
but it's all in our heads
we are never remembered
until we are dead
3rd revision
Two men in a jail cell.
One with a scalpel.
One roped to a chair.

The man with a scalpel,
He is no medicine man—
He is a torturer.

The man in the chair,
He is no prisoner of war—
He is a civilian.

Weeks pass by and
The door never opens
Until—

On the one-hundrenth night
Out of the cell, crawls
Only one man

On his skin, there lies
A masterpiece.
A raised rendition of "Starry Night."

Eyes glance back into
His previous prison,
Only to find—

An empty chair.
A scalpel.
A reflection.
I would not like to cloud the story up with rhyme.
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