I baked an apple pie
Tossing seasonings and spices
Blending nicely
I sifted the dough
And created the most perfect edges
It came out perfect
In this joyous mood
I found myself eating one too many slices
Wondering how I could perfect a pie
Before ever perfecting myself
I want to be perfect
But I know I never will be
No matter how bad I want it
Or how much I try
I'll have my imperfections
Soon, I'm eating the last slice
As tears fall from my cheeks
Wondering why
I can't be someone's perfect apple pie.
YOU ARE READING
Where The Grass Grows
ŞiirA poetry collection about life & death, love, loss, & grief. Written through the lens of a 15-17-year-old girl. These poems are a collection of my story. Take care of them. They mean the world to me.
