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Array
(
[sid] => 59646
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The Cherry Picker.
[time] => 2004-08-10 17:39:55
[hometext] => I wrote this about someone I can't let go of, but both of the people in the poem are me.
[bodytext] => Everyday, she grew older. she took men like cherries as if she were making pie. Everyday. She sadly, grew so weary of pie that she wouldn't pick a cherry if she could. though she saw a hundred bright cherries bright enough to bake a brilliant pie She met a cherry picker who was just like she as she remembered herself. tearing through the branches of all the trees she could stripping them of all the berries and living on the high diet of pie. Famished she touched the skin of the cherry picker smooth and hot with sun her mouth filled with the taste of the cherry picker And he distracted by her like a spider by debris whos wafeture introduced it to tugging on web. The she Narcissine gazing in a glassed pool loved herself in the cherry picker. suckled her own lost days from the other He was awe striken, paralyzed by the fourtune teller who could somehow refuse cherries. Her lips and tounge fragrant and red stained and the scent that floated about her. She shook herself struck suddenly by the familiar smell of cherries and red stained hands on her back She shuddered and cringed, and picked herself up she walked from the orchard stiff and tricked "cannibals..." she thought. She stood on a hill overlooking the orchard and the cherry picker, dilligent back to work in the trees. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 174 [topic] => 61 [informant] => MsScissors [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => selfstruggles )
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