Willow

If there's one thing in common most English poets share, it is their obsession with willows. Personally, I prefer my swings or that phallic looking playground near Simpang. Yes, it is phallic. Go check it out,.Its opposite Palmwoods and behind the street soccer court. As 'wrong' as it looks, its actually a nice place.You'll have to climb up to the top and that's where you'll feel like you have your own tree house.

Al, this is the Willow poem you wanted me to write BUT not told me why... Doesn't really matter since I was in the mood to write. If you're reading this, PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE DUDE AND CALL YOUR PARENTS.


The willow hangs above the surface,
like a mother's shielding embrace,
sheltering her from the bare
and only letting in the air.
The curtain of green swayed,
All in sync with the wind's play.
Arms wrapped around her knees.
From behind, only one eye sees.
The wind tugged,
Suddenly breaking the willows hug.
The mirror shatters in tiny circles.