apple core
i know the brooding existentialism that i claim to be my poetic brand is not that deep but i still feel like somehow it’ll keep me from perishing refusing the bite of a red apple just to prevent it from becoming its core refusing the sweet floral skin for fear i’ll be right, each bite revealing more white flesh until it’s nothing but seeds and stem but what is the alternative? letting it go soft and black, rotting anyway, but with no one to enjoy it? why do i waste sweetness in a futile effort to prolong the fruit when the whole thing is just a core covered in time the chewed up core, this stripped down version of my being is not waiting to be but already is