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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is a poem of mine, written a few months ago, which won second prize in the Whizolosophy June-July poetry competition. Inspired by the forests of Oregon, and some sophistry, this is one of my
proudest pieces.

Submitted: August 06, 2018

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Submitted: August 06, 2018



Your hair acts as branches, your head's full of leaves. The way I see it, we're all walking trees
 Roots run throughout us, keeping sap distilled; strange plants are we, only planted when killed

A wonder, I don't doubt,  weird tree people we, what grows in our heads tends to creep out. 
All trees make fruit, it grows on branch ends; here's another tip, sharing fruit is how trees make friends.

Old looming oak trees will tell you it's all up to fruits, if a tree has decent roots; But a tree's a tree, in trunks or in shoots. Many types of trees may comfort the bereaved. It can be a small relief to those who grieve to make hot drinks from bitter tasting leaves.

There are trees who grow fruit ever so rarely; these trees might need a helping hand, but among those who wait, seldom growing fruit is in high demand.

You might see among those who think growing's a race. We can all be found guilty of having fruit or leaves hang in our face. It's no sin to have hanging branches, to be caught in a freeze ; What's just not right are trees who cut down other trees.

Well we might all be trees, that would be fine. Sometimes it's hard to see, with a head full of bramble and vines.

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