Apples.
Oh, I love apples.
The crunchy, the sweet kind.
The one in the garden I'd find.
Oh, if only the hate of society didn't bleach every single one I pick soft and brown before my hands could reach.
Now, I'm left standing between rotten fruit.
A form of society.
I don't like apples anymore.
Not for pursuit.
And for that, I didn't even look at the tree a few feet afar, with ripe and sweet apples - all are fresh and red.
I didn't.
Because a bite of disappointment turns me sad.
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When Your Card Gets Declined At Therapy | Poetry Collection Part 1 ©
Poetry... so they bring up the poems you wrote instead. © All written by me 2022 - 2024 Fay Willows
