April 18th, 2021
My brain is an apple. Red and sweet, easily bruised. The way I move does not help. My skull kisses the apple, and the apple is bruised time and time again. I shake my head, I'm at a loss for words, I'm overwhelmed, I'm confused. And you look at me like it's just supposed to come easily. So I shake my head. And my apple brain pays the price. But how many bruises can it take before eventually it begins to rot? When is my time up? When have used all of my best runarounds? When will the mold take me over and send me into a deep deep sleep? My brain is an apple, and if it doesn't make sense to you, you aren't meant to understand. My brain is an apple, and yours, the teeth.
R.K.
YOU ARE READING
Holeheart
PoetryI am the forgiver. I am the destroyer. I'm not at fault, but I deserve to be. Poetry and Prose Volume V 2021 DISCONTINUED
